Death is the Rule
by thorne98
Summary: The Hunger Games are a bloody and vicious charade, and the only rule is death. SYOT CLOSED! (14/24)
1. Chapter 1: the Gamemaker's Proposal

_You keep dreaming and dark scheming, y__eah, you do_

_You're a poison __and I know that is the truth_

_You're so plastic and that's tragic, just for you_

_I don't know what the hell you gonna do_

-Two Feet, I Feel Like I'm Drowning

* * *

**Vivianne Vetura **(**41**),** Head Gamemaker**

The smell of antiseptic hits her nose hard. She grimaces, the corners of her already thin smile turning down at the strong scent. Her ears have been met with silence since the moment she stepped out of the office, save the clicking of her heels on the freshly disinfected linoleum floors. She walks briskly, and with purpose, moving towards the exit of the building.

A lone man in a stark white coat hurries down the length of the hallway, drawing a stack of papers closer to him and averting his eyes as he passes her. She smirks, a look of satisfaction creeping onto her face. Most of the underlings fear her – and rightfully so – Vivianne Veturia is not a woman to be messed with.

She glances at her watch. _These goddamn hallways_, she thinks, shaking her head and sighing as she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She refuses to allow the maze-like layout of the building fool her, yet another year passes and even now she still has trouble finding the exit. The fluorescent lights don't help either, in all their harshness. _Artificial, like everything else in the Capitol_. She was never one to indulge in the bright colors and endless frivolities of the Capitol, preferring instead to remain unchanged by the trends. It's a choice that garners her respect, she knows.

She finally rounds the corner into the brightly lit lobby, the large glass windows allowing the sun to filter into the room. Her smirk disappears in an instant. Two armored Peacekeepers clad in white lie in wait by the large glass doors that control the flow of foot traffic into the building, their black visors shut and imposing as ever. She takes off her glasses and pinches her nose in frustration. Visitors are far and few between, yet the routine remains in place.

She can never tell if they're the same ones every day, as they seem to have been instructed to be silent within the confines of the building. But she knows that they know who she is. After the success of the last Hunger Games, her name is spoken in households all across the country of Panem.

The closer one outstretches a gloved hand and she hands him her identification card, looking sternly into the depth of his visor. He swipes the card, and second armored man logs this into an electronic ledger. She sees her name and identification profile in red letters on his screen, and he swipes them to the left, erasing the entry and instead working to manually enter her information into the ledger.

"I suppose neither of you are familiar with the technology?" She asks curtly, breaking the silence of the lobby. Her eyes flick between the two of them in a predatory fashion. _I guess they're new_. The one with the ledger nods slowly. She plucks her card from the hand of the first one. "I'm the Head Gamemaker. That should be identification enough for the both of you," she says testily, pushing open the door.

They make no move to stop her, and the door closes shut with a muffled noise. She adjusts her glasses and smooths her pencil skirt before continuing down the concrete steps and into the real sunlight.

The street is overflowing with a tide of bright colors that assault her eyes: the citizens of the Capitol dress in extravagant fashion. A woman passes, wearing a bright pink dress and pale blue hair, her face milk-white and shimmering in the sun. A man follows her, laughing, his hair teased back, an electric yellow that does nothing but clash horribly with his orange suit.

_Clowns, all of them_. She thinks, shaking her head. A Peacekeeper standing guard in front of the Institute - the building from which she had just left - jogs down the stairs and unclips his baton from his belt. The sea of color parts for them, two white dots, and accepts them into the fold, parading around the City Circle.

She grins at the Peacekeeper, feeling reassured by his presence at her side. Despite the harmlessness of the Capitolites, having him by her side allows her to relax from the tension she feels. She knows Calvus is grinning too, behind his visor. The two had become very close within the last year since her appointment as Head Gamemaker. _Maybe too close_. She increases her pace quickly so that he cannot see her blush.

He catches up to her and places a gloved hand on her shoulder, surprisingly gentle for such an intimidating man. "What's on your mind, Viv?" He asks her, his voice smooth and comforting. She turns to face him, staring into his visor. She can see the reflection of herself in it, her dark hair shot through with streaks of gray. She's getting older and she knows it.

"I'm nervous for my meeting with the President." She tells him. But it's only half truthful; the Hunger Games is rapidly approaching. She and her team of Gamemakers have been working for ages to design a perfect arena. Following her success last year, she's looking to introduce higher stakes to the games. But she's also nervous for her life. After the last Hunger Games, the President was disappointed by the lack of obstacles in the Arena. Despite the massive success and high ratings from the Capitol viewers, she knows that the only opinion that matters is the President's.

"Don't be," Calvus says, steering her through the endless crowd. The president's mansion comes into sight at the far end of the Circle, its massive pristine columns and arches giving off a feel of grandeur. She knows that it's just a front to mask the beast within. ". . . the President liked your show last year, I know he did. Everyone did! He just wants to improve, that's all."

She nods absently. The Games last year had ended in a spectacular finale that had led the eventual Victor, Talisa Umiko, to receive high praise and spotlight from the Capitol. A Career from District 4, she and her ally from District 1 had hunted down the remaining tributes. The final battle had occurred near the riverside, and the District 1 boy had ambushed and bloodied the District 11 boy. She had killed both of them.

"I sure hope so," she mutters, ascending the steps on the other side of the circle, raised above the crowd. She turns back to look at Calvus and gives him a small smile, longing plain in her eyes. He remains at the foot of the steps as the line of Peacekeepers breaks for her and reforms behind her, a stark white line guarding the President's Mansion. She takes a deep breath, grasping the polished iron knocker embedded into the heavy oaken doors, and knocks.

A heartbeat passes and the door swings wide open, revealing a pale and demure looking woman wearing a sheer black dress. A plain and flawless golden mask covers the lower half of her jaw, and her hair is pulled back into a bun, much like Vivianne's own. The Avoxes always greatly disturbed her. The masks were unnecessary - the Avoxes could not speak - yet they were still worn to remind them of why. The practice of turning traitors and criminals into mute slaves by cutting out their tongues was not something that she was particularly keen to support.

The woman stepped back from the arched doorway, and taking a last breath in the sunshine, the Head Gamemaker stepped over the threshold and into the darkness. The sunlight and noise from the parade of color outside was cut from the room immediately as the Avox woman closed the door behind her, with a click that echoed through the room.

The entry room was extravagant, the main hallway framed with dual spiraling staircases that lead into the upper rooms, with polished mahogany bannisters. A great chandelier hung from the ceiling, sporting a thousand dimly lit candles to provide a soft, dusky light.

The Avox then moves to lead her deeper into the lavish mansion, her movements unnervingly silent. And like a ghost, she passes over polished floors and expensive tile without making noise or scuffing her feet. Vivianne curses under her breath when she does. The noise fills the whole house._ Its like a fucking mausoleum_.

A sudden noise from the bowels of the house makes her stiffen up. The air suddenly feels chillier and the mansion feels more sinister. The Avox woman has left her side, and she takes a tentative step into the main room. The far wall is dominated by a large fireplace, the beautiful stonework no doubt a product of the District 2 masonry industry. There is a fire roaring inside of it, the orange flames casting a sickly glow across the dark room, the furniture creating long shadows that reach with outstretched hands across the floor, seemingly for her.

The Avox woman returns with a tray in her arms, a bottle of champagne and two crystal glasses balanced perfectly on it. She whisks past Vivianne, who shivers as the movement brings cold air to pass behind her. The Avox reaches a chair and sets the tray on an ornate wooden table next to it. Her eyes adjust to the imbalance caused by the fireplace, and she sees the sallow-skinned man sitting in the large armchair across the room from her. His eyes are trained onto her.

"Vivianne," the President says curtly, rising from the chair to extend a hand. Startled, she quickly closes the distance between them and completes the gesture. His grip is crushing, and she winces slightly. She can see in his eyes that he takes notice of this, and he released her from his grip and gestures at the chair that a second Avox has pulled up behind her.

Unsettled that she did not hear the Avox enter, she looks at him as she takes a seat. His eyes are vacant, just like the first one's, who finishes pouring champagne in the two glasses. They both then disappear into the shadows on the wall opposite the fireplace, where the light doesn't quite reach. She reaches for her glass and watches the President slowly take a sip from his, his dyed golden hair gleaming in the firelight as if it were molten metal.

"I trust that you made it here safely?" He inquires, his voice smooth and unctuous, like oil.

"Yes," she says with a strained smile. "I made it just fine." She too takes a sip from the crystal glass. It's cold on her tongue and she shivers again. _It's like an icebox in this room_, she thinks miserably.

He inclines his head slowly. "You remember clearly what I said last year, following the Hunger Games, yes?" He takes a nod as affirmation, and pauses, draining his glass. The Avox woman then emerges from the shadows to refill his glass. "I trust that you have made the necessary revisions, like I asked?"

She nods slowly, gulping down another sip of champagne to wet her throat. "I have. I can ensure that this year's Hunger Games will be more entertaining than last year's edition."

A sharklike grin appears on his face. "Good. Tell me."

And she does, detailing all of the new differences she and her team have labored over in the past year since Talisa was crowned the Victor of the 28th Annual Hunger Games. With each thing she tells him, his grin grows bigger. "Wonderful ideas, Vivianne. I surely have made the right choice in appointing you to oversee the Games. But you must remember one thing for me."

She gives him a quizzical look, finally draining her glass as she waits for his answer in anticipation.

"You're focused on making them survive. Yet death is the rule. Survival is merely the exception."

* * *

**Author's Note**: **This is my first SYOT on this site. My first anything on this site, for that matter - I'm a little new to the game, to be honest. But, anyone that has viewed this, I'm very happy you're here. :) Feel free to leave a review, constructive criticism is very much accepted, I'm here to grow alongside the story. **

**Additionally, I know some of you are going to want to submit a tribute! That information can be found on my home page, alongside the rules for submitting one. It's a fairly long form to fill out, but I really do appreciate it if you're willing to find the time. I'm here to get to know your characters, up until the moment I have to kill them. I have the next chapter in the works, and in addition to that, the sponsorship rules should be up when I update that. I like to try and make sure my writing has a decent flow and tone to it before I update. However, I'm not the best writer - so bear with me ! - and I have a job and a life. Updates will hopefully come regularly, and I'll get to writing some of the Reapings once submissions come through. **

**No guest submissions will be allowed - I apologize in advance - but I need to be able to PM you if you choose to involve yourself in this SYOT that way I can write your characters to their full potential. Have a great day guys! I hope to get some submissions, and I'll see you all soon. :)))**


	2. Chapter 2: the Fragility of Survival

_Ooh, I fall apart_

_Down to my core_

_Ooh, I fall apart_

_Down to my core_

-Post Malone, I Fall Apart

* * *

**Talisa Umiko, Victor of the 28th Hunger Games**

The applause is deafening. Like the roaring waters back home, topped in whitecaps, crashing endlessly. Carving away at the beach. Carving away at her. The lights are blinding, all trained on her, and she manages to force out a weak smile, and an even weaker wave.

The crowd eats it up, cheering and screaming her name, an endless cacophony of noise. She stumbles towards the seat, and sits, glad to be off of her feet. The light seems to dim down, and the applause slowly fades away as she focuses on the man sitting in front of her, his signature vibrant pastel red hair and pale pink suit bright, his complexion flawless under the revealing spotlight.

In comparison, she knows that she must look absolutely dreadful. Her dress is a deep sea green, and her makeup is done beautifully by the prep team just behind the stage. But she knows that she's thinned out and paled considerably. The damage that the Games has done to her is irreparable.

Once the applause has fully died, and all eyes are trained on the two of them, the interviewer begins to speak. "Talisa! We're so glad to see you here again."

She nods slowly. "It's good to see you again too, Tarquinius." It's not entirely a lie: Tarquinius Valentine is Panem's Master of Ceremonies. He hosts the Hunger Games and interviews the tributes, and though he puts on a bright and exuberant façade for the Capitolites, she knows just how genuine and caring of a man he really is to the tributes he interviews. She knows that sending twenty-three children off to their death each year, and not knowing which one he will get to see again, weighs heavily on his conscience.

But from afar, you really can't tell. "Now, darling, just call me Quinn. We know each other well enough by now, surely!" he chuckles, plastering a winning smile onto his face, his perfect white teeth gleaming in the bright stage lights. It teases a genuine smile out from her for the first time in months. She knows he means it too; they've talked plenty on and off the stage since her crowning as the Victor.

"The last time I saw you," he continues, "was after the Victory Tour!" he says approvingly, inciting a roar from the crowd beneath the stage.

She drums her fingers restlessly on the taut leather arm of the chair. "Yeah. That was quite the show you gave us, Tar-I mean, Quinn."

He grins. "Yes, yes it was. And I think I speak for all of Panem when I think we ended with the most deserving Victor. How exciting was it that you were the one to take home the crown!"

Her smile vanishes and she has to bite her lip to stop herself from speaking out. He doesn't speak for all of Panem. Every District had faced her with silence. Weak, unenthusiastic claps. Sadness. She was euphoric in the aftermath, to have survived with her life; yet two tributes from each district had died. The only Districts that had been happy for her victory was her own, and District 2. They had always loved a good fight. But in District 1, she faced the harshest silence of all. She nods to the Master of Ceremonies. "I'm glad to have won. I know I proved myself and made everyone back home so proud of me."

Her district partner had died in the bloodbath, a shock for all the Careers. She had to work twice as hard to earn her spot among them, she recalled. To keep District 4's reputation standing. Most Careers had normally survived the bloodbath, so it was unusual that he had not. Even Zeke's family had been able to choke out a congratulations to her, despite the loss of their son. They knew there could only be one Victor, and they were glad that it came from their District.

Valentine's smile is dazzling. "I'm sure they were, sweetheart." His voice catches a small hitch in it. "It's a celebration to bring home any tribute as a Victor. . ." He trails off, clearly pained, taking a sip of white wine to wet his painted lips before speaking again. "So, how has your family adjusted to life in the Victor's Village?" he asks, leaning in towards her, showing his eagerness to hear her response.

"My family's doing great. The house is gorgeous, nothing compared to the Capitol though. My parents are happy to have me back, and my little brother, he isn't really old enough to care about the differences, if you know what I mean." She gives him a tentative smile, cueing him to change the subject away from her family. Her little brother, Shoal, was old enough to care about the differences. She just knew that he wouldn't be able to express if he did. Her parents considered Shoal an embarrassment, because his brain wasn't fully formed in the womb. She loved him just the same. Taking care of him was what made her still feel human.

Valentine nods understandingly, a gentle expression on his face. "With the up-and-coming 29th Annual Hunger Games, I'm sure we're all dying to know: are you going to mentor for the Games this year?" The audience waits with bated breath to hear her answer. District 4 has produced two other winners since the first Hunger Games. The first had won the 4th Hunger Games, and mentored ever since until Caspian won, eight years later. Then she had taken home another victory, sixteen years after Caspian. It had been a long time since District 4 had won the Games.

"I'm taking Nerida's place," she nods. The Capitolites look enthusiastic about this decision, their painted faces twisted into cheers, their colored wigs glittering like oiled gems in the stage light. Beyond the stage, the Capitol is lit brightly, supplied with electricity from District 5's power plants. But the sky above is hazy and dark, like ink. The moon is nowhere to be seen.

"She really does deserve the break." Valentine admits sympathetically. "I know we're all excited to get to see more of you, and some fresh strategies coming from our new District 4 tributes. Are you excited for the Games?" he asks, smoothing down the lapels on his suit. Once again, she becomes fully aware that the entirety of Panem is watching her interview. Broadcast to all of the television networks, the preparation for the Hunger Games is underway once more, she knows.

"I'm very excited for it, Quinn," she lies. She doesn't want to get attached to the new tributes just to see them killed on screen. "I think I can bring some new insight to our District 4 tributes this year. And I know we'd all like another fresh face in the Victor's Village," she says a little boldly.

To his credit, Valentine manages to look surprised and compliments her on her boldness. "I have no doubt that under your leadership, District 4 stands a great chance of bringing home another win under their belt."

_I only won because I killed Markus_. The win should have gone to District 1. But she had killed him instead. And she knew that District 1 would hate her for it. Their silence was answer enough. He should have won the Games, not her. And everyone knows it. Markus Valour, the perfect golden boy from District 1. Top Career in the Arena, even over the District 2 tributes. He had gotten sponsors left and right from the Capitol. They adored him, ever since the moment he had volunteered. But his name has died on their lips and they scream for her instead.

Because she gave them a better show. Because she betrayed her ally and shocked the audience.

She struggles for words to respond with but failing and falling short. Valentine decides to wrap things up for her, standing and ushering her in for a hug. "You'll be okay," he whispers into her ear. When they pull apart, his shoulder is wet, and she blinks back any more tears. "And there you have it!" He shouts with as much joviality as he can manage. "Talisa Umiko, Victor of the 28th Annual Hunger Games, everybody!"

She manages a curtsy, and the applause follows her off the stage, ringing in her ears. Her head starts to throb viciously. The moment she steps behind the curtains, her prep team flocks around her like colorful birds, squawking praises into her ears.

"Oh, Talisa you were stunning!"

"Wonderful performance, darling, just marvelous!"

She shrugs them away and heads to the dressing room, forcefully shutting the door and locking it. It's a thin barricade between her and them, but she knows they won't bother her in here.

"And next," booms Valentine's voice from a speaker box behind the stage, "Head Gamemaker Vetura, on the upcoming Hunger Games!" The crowd goes wild, and she slips into numbness. She stares at the mirror, pristine and polished. She barely recognizes the girl who stares back at her. Pallid and thin, not strong and tanned like the girl who entered the Games with a smile on her face. She unclasps the dress from her shoulder and lets the folds of sea-green silk fall into a puddle around her ankles.

Most Victors turn to drugs and drinks to ease the horrors of their Games. She punishes herself in a different way. _Too thin_, the girl that stares back at her seems to say. Her ribcage is starting to show, her face gaunt and tired, mascara blotchy and streaking down toward her chin. She can't bring herself to eat after facing the Games. Caspian drinks. He gets wasted and can't remember what he was doing the night before. District 6 injects morphling, she knows. They abuse the drug like a lifeline. She starves, like the outer Districts did. Like the girl from District 12, dead moments after she had fled into the woods.

_She was too thin_. Why should she deserve to live and return to a District of abundance and riches, of Capitol favoritism, while the population starved in the outer Districts? She hadn't had to take tesserae her entire life. No Career did. The outliers had no choice.

Her skin is stretched tight across her bones, whatever muscles she had, still visible, but greatly diminished. Her workouts didn't feel gratifying anymore, they felt like punishment. _Maybe they are_.

She can hear knocking on the door, and she flinches, staring at her reflection with its sunken eyes and prominent cheekbones. She leans her hands on the sink and draws her body into the light. She turns on the sink, sluicing the freezing water over her face, rubbing off the mascara. Rubbing off the drying tears.

The knocking continues. Slowly, she puts on her dress again, and clasps it above her shoulder. She picks up the pieces of herself that had fallen apart in the dim confines of the bathroom. She reapplies her mascara, composes herself in the mirror, and unlocks the door.

* * *

**Author's Note: I uploaded within 24 hours, I know. But to be fair this was written already. I know, pretty typical to include the past Victor in the prologue scenes but... ah screw it, it works with the story well enough. I've got two more chapters planned before I begin the reapings, but thanks to those who have decided to take a role in my story - it's very much appreciated. If you haven't submitted yet - please do! Limited spots are still open. I expect my chapters to get longer once I start diving into the Reapings and such, but these chapters feel the appropriate length for what I'm trying to convey. Next chapter from Vivianne's perspective. What do you think of the characters I've introduced? Anything I could change about them to make them better?**


	3. Chapter 3: Reapings Part 1

**Beginning Note****: Hey guys! I'm SO sorry this took so long to churn out. I had done a lot of the previous chapters finished in one sitting, and just needed to refine them a little. Then since I HAD them done, I was itching to get them out haha. Now I'm starting from scratch so uploading will probably have gaps in it for a while, but I do hope I don't burn out, that would suck. Thank you all for your patience, I hope to get further updates done quicker but this is my first attempt writing other people's characters.**

**Without further ado: your tributes from District 2!**

* * *

_He sees them talking with a big smile_

_But they haven't got a clue_

_Yeah, they're living the good life_

_Can't see what he is going through_

-Echosmith, Cool Kids

* * *

**Moses Finch** (**18**)

The sound of his fists against the leather bag is therapeutic, a systematic noise that fills the empty gymnasium like a drumbeat, and he grunts as his fist connects with the bag again. It releases a plume of flour into the air, where it begins to settle, sticking to his sweaty skin.

_Not hard enough_, he chastises himself, throwing his punches harder at the bag, which begins to swing back and forth toward him. _You're a weakling_. He strikes the bag again, little granules of flour forming clouds in the stale air that rain down upon the floor.

He is interrupted by the sound of footsteps coming from the direction of the door, and he begins to throw his punches harder. _They know you're a weakling_. The chain creaks angrily with the assault of the bag, and the footsteps stopped.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," quips the boy, standing a few feet away from the punching bag. Moses looks down, and sighs. The flour has coated his entire upper body, and he brushes some off, a mortified expression crossing his face.

"No, I just look like you," Moses retorts, wiping more flour off his lustrous ebony skin. The boy laughs, the sound echoing around the room.

"You are going to follow through with it, though?" Aaron asks him, his grin not quite meeting his eyes. "You know how devastated Eve would be if you lost," he says. Moses sighs, crossing the room to fetch his towel. He and Aaron Israel had met three years ago, when the Academy had forced them to be sparring partners. The two had become close during their training, but Aaron had begun to distance himself as his sister became romantically interested in Moses.

"Who said I'm going to lose?" He glares at his friend, his demeanor becoming defensive at the remark. "I'm volunteering because I know I've got a shot," he finishes. _I'm volunteering to prove them all wrong_. Moses crosses his arms.

Aaron nods slowly. "You've got just as much of a shot as any of us. The Academy _did_ handpick you to volunteer after all." Moses grins at this, wiping the flour off his sticky skin in slow, deliberate motions, keeping his eyes trained on Aaron.

"Are you jealous of me?" He asks, his voice becoming a little softer. "I know you've worked just as hard as I have," says Moses, knowing deep within his heart that it isn't true. Aaron trains because his parents paid for him to be trained.

Moses trains because he knows that the only way to prove he is the strongest cadet. _It's the only way to prove your masculinity_, the voice in his head whispers. _The only way to show them you aren't a fucking sissy._

He's completely missed what Aaron has said, and pulls himself back into the present. "I knew you wouldn't be," he says. "You're guaranteed adulthood," he grins.

Aaron cracks a smile and puts his arm over Moses' shoulder. Moses feels his heart begin to beat faster, a workout of its own, and he feels a heat rising to his cheeks as Aaron makes contact with his bare skin.

"But at least you get all the glory, whether you come back or not," his friend jokes, his smile finally reaching his dark eyes for the first time since he had entered the empty gymnasium.

Aaron pulls away from his friendly embrace, and Moses exhales disappointedly. He doesn't know why he even bothers to get his hopes up - Gideon is proof of that - so he pushes the thought out of his head as soon as it appears. Gideon Cairo, his old friend, had been his first real male love interest.

Moses can still feel the barrage of phantom fists against his skin, bruising he and Gideon for being caught in his room exploring how they really felt. Gideon's father hadn't taken it well. The beating was a clear reason why; but he hadn't been welcome at the Cairo household since.

His training partner begins to walk to the door, running his fingers through his hair to tidy it up. "The Reapings are due to start soon. You might wanna get home and change. Eve and I will meet you beforehand, we can head down together." Aaron nods to the mess of flour on the floor. "I wouldn't bother cleaning that up, it's not gonna be your problem in a couple of hours." With that, the gymnasium grows still once more.

_This could be the last I see it_, he realizes. He's spent so much time preparing for the Games… so many hours spent in this very room, pushing himself to the limits. Taking out his frustrations on the flour-filled bags and dummies. Half of his life has been spent preparing for this event, and even now that he's of age, Moses grows more unsure with each passing heartbeat.

He picks his duffel bag off the floor and throws the towel over his shoulder. _I won't let my mistakes define me_. He strengthens his resolve and faces the door with deep brown eyes before heading into the hallway for what might be the last time.

* * *

_No matter what we breed_

_We still are made of greed_

_This is my kingdom come_

_This is my kingdom come_

-Imagine Dragons, Demons

* * *

**Hela Mistlyre** (**18**)

The steel makes a sharp ringing noise as it connects once again with her sparring partner's sword. She can smell the sweat that drips down from Flarian's brow, and revels in the fact that she's beginning to tire.

Hela lunges to the left and twists to the right, bringing her blade against the woman's ribs. It throws her off balance, and a haughty smirk makes its appearance onto the trainee's face as she watches Flarian pick herself off the floor. The blades are dull, and both wearing sparring gear, yet the smell of blood makes its presence in the chilly room all the same.

Her sparring partner grits her teeth, inhaling sharply. "Balance," Hela says coolly. "You have to retain your balance." Flarian is clearly pissed at the snarkiness, her brows drawn together to form an angry line across her sweaty forehead.

"Well done, Hela," declares her trainer, his gruff voice loud and jarring in the quietness of the room. "Miss Exemptria," he continues, gesturing to her sword, lying on the ground a foot away from her.

Her sparring partner begrudgingly picks the weapon from the floor. It gleams in the bright lights of the training facility, and Hela's grin vanishes as she readies herself for the next round.

Both hands are wrapped around the hilt now, the worn leather familiar to her; like an extension of her arm. She glances quickly to the man standing on the mezzanine of the sparring field, his scarred hands clutching the railing with ease.

_Athens knows I'm going to win. _She grins, brushing a loose strand of hair out of her face. It must've escaped her braid during the last round, and is the only sign that she has been moving at all. _How frustrating must it be for Flarian to lose every time, I wonder?_ She questions as she flicks her wrist, disarming her opponent once more with a deliberately rough strike to her opponent's hand. Flarian reels back, dropping the blade in pain.

The two of them, under the careful supervision of her trainer Athens Kristen, have been dueling for an hour now. The sparring field is silent save for the quiet ticking of the clock suspended on the ceiling and the quick clashing duet of the blades at hand.

Athens raises a hand, signaling the end of their session. "Great effort, the pair of you," he says. Hela knows the praise is directed at her, and the same arrogant smile from before returns to her face.

"I trust that you know what needs to be done?" Athens shifts his focus to her.

"It's been eighteen years and coming," Hela replies smugly. "I'm as ready for the Games as I'll ever be."

Her trainer nods in approval. "The Academy chose you for a reason." He scratches his auburn beard. "Get cleaned up, the both of you. The Reapings start in exactly an hour, and I expect both of you to arrive on time." With that, the man whisks out of the room, leaving the two of them in the empty stadium alone.

Of course the Academy chose her. _How could they not?_ She thinks as she struts away, leaving Flarian to take care of the weapons.

Her whole life, Hela has been trained as a weapon. She's been trained for this very event - for her, the Games began eighteen years ago, when the Academy had taken her in at the behest of her father, Hannibal. She'd never known him, never known who he was apart from her sister's stories.

But clearly, winning the first Hunger Games had given him plenty of leverage when securing his daughter the most elite training District 2 could offer.

_He'd be proud of what I've become_, she muses. _He'd be proud of the hell I'm going to raise_.

* * *

**Moses Finch** (**18**)

He stands still, in front of the mirror in the center of his cramped bedroom. His eyes roam over his taut muscles, and he changes position again to admire them. He then reluctantly pulls on a crisp white button-up shirt, ensuring that his physique is more than properly showcased for the audiences.

He wants the other tributes to know he's a threat before they even meet him in person, and he knows the best way to do it is by looking bulky and intimidating when compared to scrawny outlier District tributes. He sighs in frustration. If only he were taller…

All his life, Moses has been vertically challenged. Standing at just 5'5", the thought of not stacking up to the other boys in District 2 is what drives him to excel. What drives him to the point of physical perfection, even at the cost of exhaustion.

It doesn't help that his Uncle Peter was tall, either. He exhales forcefully in his frustration. The two had been compared ever since he was born, as the resemblance between them was rather uncanny. His father's brother had died a hero, a rebel fighter in the Dark Days of Panem's earliest - and bloodiest - history.

He knows he and his uncle don't quite match up. He'll never live up to his father's high expectations, no matter how hard he pushes himself to succeed.

He runs his hand through his hair, tugging at the snarls until his hair is set the way he wants it to look. His tight curls hang towards his forehead, and cut shorter on the sides but still textured, and once he's satisfied, he pulls on some clean, ironed black dress pants, socks, and shoes. He leaves his shirt untucked in a casual manner so that the wind might catch it and expose his chiseled sides; and slides the mirror back into its place when he hears his parents calling for him downstairs.

Moses sighs and tidies up his things, quickly putting the room back together. He lingers at the door for a brief moment, surveying the hastily cleaned room. Eighteen years of his life he's spent sleeping in this bed. _The ones in the Capitol must be so much better_, he thinks, his eyes finally resting on the window. He'll miss the view of the rolling hills that separate the property from the edge of town. He'll miss the solitude.

He closes the door slowly, making sure it doesn't make a sound as not to disturb the number of guests they're housing. Once sure it's been closed, he heads down the flight of stairs. His younger sister, Mary, pokes her head out from her room before retreating back inside.

Moses smiles, knowing she'll never need to worry about the Hunger Games. A volunteer will always take her place - Mary isn't a trainee, and neither of their parents have shown interest in her being one. That thought brings him a degree of comfort.

He's always been destined to enter. He's been trained for the event, at his father's urges. But he knows that by leaving so much behind, so much unfulfilled in his life... it isn't how he wants to go out. _That's why I have to win. So I can come back, and set things right._

He hits the bottom of the stairs and is ambushed by a tight embrace from his graying mother. "I love you so much, Moss," she whispers gently into his ear, a sob already hitching in the back of her throat.

He softens at the use of her nickname for him. She's called him it as long as he can remember. He hugs her tighter, breathing in the scent of smoke from her hair. The tender moment is broken by his father's voice. "Come on Ruth," he grins. "You made a whole breakfast ham, let him eat!" She breaks away, wiping the underside of her eyelids dry before following him into the dimly lit dining room.

He's surprised to find the table entirely vacant - as usually the house's short-term occupants would be eating around this time of morning - but takes a seat facing the door and helps himself to some ham and fried potatoes anyway.

The Finch family had not come from money, yet ever since his ancestors swindled some rich proprietors of their land, they had elected to build a safe haven of sorts on the plot. They offered the residents of District 2 hospitality and a place to stay (for the ones who found themselves facing issues at home). Often their small dining room was cramped with dissatisfied wives and bruised teenagers.

Today however, he ate alone. The scraping noise of his fork against the plate was the only sound in the room until his father and mother made a reappearance from the kitchen and took seats next to him. "How do you feel, son?" asked his father, taking a sip from his mug. His father grimaces before adding more milk to his steaming mug of coffee.

"I'm nervous," Moses admitted slowly. "I know I'm ready for the Games, but the pressure from the Capitol and securing sponsors is what's worrying me the most." He takes another bite of ham, his left hand resting on his leg below the table, his fingers drumming with anxious rhythm.

His mother has the answer ready for him. "You'll do fine, Moses. Just be likeable, and make sure to let them know how strong you are! You know how much of a crowd favorite District 2 is," she offers him a smile.

His mother's words ring true. But there's a sinking feeling in his stomach that he can't shake. As soon as the Peacekeepers have all of the children assembled, the Reapings begin. He'll be televised to the entirety of Panem. As soon as the Reapings begin, sponsors will start making their decisions, and tributes will start making their assessments.

He rubs his temples anxiously, and jumps out of the chair as the doorbell rings. He stands up, leaving the breakfast half-finished and abruptly ending his brief conversation with his parents. Moses crosses the foyer and greets Aaron and Eve with a wan smile. He looks back on his clearly crestfallen parents sitting in the dining room.

"I'll see you guys after the Reapings, okay? Love you both!" He calls as cheerfully as he can manage before heading out into the sunshine with the twins, his arm looped around Eve's waist. His thoughts are very muddled, and his impending decision causing him to tune out his surroundings.

Suddenly, a bell goes off from the town's square, all the way down the hills and into the distance. It signals the countdown to the beginning of the Reapings.

For Moses, the Games have officially begun.

* * *

**Hela Mistlyre** (**18**)

She's long since gotten accustomed to the freezing halls of the training complex, it's bone-deep chill ingraining itself into her very bones.

It's with this ice that she holds herself, poised, her head held high as she walks back down to her chambers, unlocking the door with steady hands. Immediately she is greeted by her sister - the younger version of herself - with the same midnight black hair and pale skin. The two engage in a stiff embrace, and peel apart before Hela carefully places her training armor on the coat-rack next to her bed.

"You've been busy?" Her sister wonders aloud, a hint of sarcasm to her voice.

"Yes, Lokir." Hela's reply contains the same iciness as the halls. "You know what's going to happen." She meets her sister's identical emerald gaze for the first time since stepping into the room.

Hela can sense fear behind her mask. Fear of losing her big sister, her only familial tie left. _Not that they counted as much of a family anyway_, Hela reflects. She had found Lokir by chance on the streets during a nighttime run. It was then that she had learned of her past, of the home that had been cut out of her life.

Her sister had run from a home that had held no more love than Hela's chambers in the Academy's training complex. Their father, Hannibal Mistlyre, had been long since plagued by the events of the very first Hunger Games. Though Lokir's scars remained a testament to the abusiveness of the man, Hela couldn't help but long for the feeling of home.

It was something she had never felt, housed deep in the bowels of the complex. She felt forgotten. Used, shaped, trained into a weapon. Designed to win. There was no _love_ between her and her trainers. Respect was all that tied them together. They were not family.

But Lokir…. Lokir was the same flesh and blood as her. It's only once Hela has stripped down and closed the door to the bathroom that she allows herself to shed a tear for the sister she's leaving behind. The only piece of family she has left.

The frigid water, like many afternoons before, cleanses her of the sweat and grime from training, and the track left by the tear is too washed away.

She steps out onto the cold tiles of the bathroom and towels herself off, before dressing herself in a form-fitting black dress, metallic green lines tracing up and down the sleeves and down the hems of the dress. She calls in Lokir to help her lace up the back, before taking a look at herself in the mirror.

Her hair, still damp, hangs from her head like a curtain, and she pushes it back, knowing it will dry in time for the Reapings. "Are you excited, sister?" She asks, tilting her head to watch Lokir.

"Yes," says her sister, finishing the back of the dress. She takes a pace back and admires her handiwork. "You look gorgeous… and intimidating," she admits as Hela applies black charcoal eyeshadow and lipstick.

"Good," Hela nods in approval. "The other tributes need to know what they're up against. It's my year to win, after all." She gives her sister a sly wink and finishes applying the lipstick. She puckers her lips and looks up through her lashes at the reflection.

Perfect.

She can feel the noise of the bell resonate throughout the room. Deep in her soul, she can feel it. The Reapings are due to start soon, and with every inch of her being she knows just how ready she is for the Games to begin.

A knock on her door draws her attention away from the mirror, and she flashes her sister - similarly dressed in a black dress - a grin as she opens the door.

"You look stunning," Flarian praises her. "I know the Capitolites will be delighted to see you on the stage. But the Reaping bell just rang, and we can't be late."

Hela nods silently and drags her sister Lokir out of the room. Flarian adjusts her burnt orange hair, which has begun an attempt to escape the confines of her bun.

The trio ascends the stairs and weaves their way through the hallways of the training complex, eventually emerging into the town square after pushing past an entry guarded by Peacekeepers.

The square has rapidly filled with the various children from all across District 2, all watching attentively as the important figures begin to take their place on the stage. The Victors - District 2 boasts the largest number of them - file onto the stage on the right side. Hela narrows her eyes as she recognizes the famed Hannibal Mistlyre, and sneers to herself.

To the left, as customary in the Career Districts, the Head Trainers also have their spot, representing the Academy in all of its glory. Athens gives her a nod before returning his gaze upon the sea of children.

Lokir takes her place in the middle of the square with the rest of the sixteen-year-olds. Hela takes her place in the front row, instructed to move quickly and elegantly toward the stage after volunteering.

The last few stragglers begin to file in, and a brunette girl is separated from her brother, who stands next to the dark-skinned boy he entered with. The girl stands a few rows behind Hela, and she returns her gaze to the stage, where the Capitol Escort has arrived.

The bounce in her step is unparalleled; Porphyria has been the District's escort since the very first Hunger Games and is clearly proud to represent the most successful of the twelve Districts.

Following the mandated video that's played on the massive screen above the stage, Porphyria grips the microphone with practiced ease and begins to address the square full of children.

"Happy Hunger Games, District 2!" She cheers to tumultuous applause. "It is now time to select our female tribute for the honor of competing in the 29th Annual Hunger Games!" Her excitement is matched by the crowd, and though the actual Reapings have little effect determining the tribute for District 2, the Academy's private selections must volunteer first to retain their spot in the Games.

The tension hangs heavy in the air as the Escort dips her fingers quickly into the bowl and pulls the first slip she touches. "Our female tribute is Chiselle McCarthy!" She grins into the microphone, her brightly painted lips framing a too-white smile as she welcomes the girl n stage. "Any volunteers?"

Absolute silence. The yard is still, waiting for their tribute to step forward. Hela smirks. _No one would dare to take my place_. It is common knowledge, despite the secrecy of the Academy, that the Academy's prized weapon would be volunteering this year.

She calmly steps forward out of the uniform line of eighteen-year-old girls, and walks with a certain swagger in her step to the stage. The clearly confused Escort had begun to cross the stage to the boy's reaping ball when Hela finally spoke.

"I volunteer!" she shouts with an arrogant lilt to her voice. Thunderous applause follows the words, and she gracefully climbs the steps to shake hands with Porphyria, who looks relieved to have finally received her volunteer.

Athens, however, has pressed his lips into a thin smile, his eyes passing over Hela as he expresses a certain amount of disappointment in her lack of urgency.

The same smirk reigns king on her face, and her gaze remains impassive as she sweeps her eyes across the crowd of people in the town square. She finally locks eyes with her sister. _I'll be the Victor of these Games_, she promises her. _I'm going to win_.

* * *

**Moses Finch** (**18**), **District 2 Tribute**

The silence in the courtyard is thick enough to cut with a knife as they wait with bated breath for the female tribute to step forward and replace Chiselle on the stage. Nothing, save the snapping of the Capitol banners mounted on the Justice Building, it's massive marble columns the work of the masonry industry here in District 2's Artisan Row.

Finally, as the Escort crosses the stage towards the boy's reaping ball does the volunteer announce herself. She looks intimidating, in her black dress. The green embroidery catches the sunlight and seems to feed it into the fabric.

There's no denying the girl is highly trained. She walks straight-backed, with a deliberate and poised elegance. Her voice does not waver, and her eyes hold a deadly glint in their emerald depths.

The cheering subsided and Porphyria regains control of the crowd, Moses begins to feel his chest tighten with unease. She dips her manicured hand inside the large glass reaping ball, quickly pulling out a slip of folded paper. "Our male tribute is Slate Harrison" she reads aloud. "Do we have any volunteers?"

Moses doesn't allow himself time to ponder his decision. _I'm going to be the best_. The words fly out if his mouth the second she prompts the question. "I volunteer as tribute!"

He feels dizzy, but walks up as quickly as possible to the stage, while the other boy steps off and melts back into the crowd. As soon as he makes it to the top step, they break out in applause just as they did with Hela.

His face breaks out in a small half-smile as he looks out at the cheering crowds. But it is erased from his face when his eyes fall upon Gideon, standing near the front of the procession.

He swallows hard, pushing down his emotions at seeing the boy, and schools his face one more into a look of boredom. For the cameras. The lack of emotion is present on the female tribute's face too, though she radiates an air of dangerous calm to her.

Porphyria asks for their names, and they give them to her. She then grips the microphone and plasters a cheery smile on her face. "I give you your tributes for District 2: Moses Finch and Hela Mistlyre!"

The cheering continues long after they've left the stage, but Moses can't help but feel as though he recognizes the girl's last name. _Mistlyre_, he ponders.

He's lost in thought, but keeps his face neutral as the Peacekeepers herd them into the grand arched doors of the Justice Building. He glances sideways at the girl once the doors have shut and dulled the noise outside. Her composure is unbroken. Then the two are separated and led into two small rooms; the visiting rooms. Moses takes a seat on the couch and waits.

* * *

**Hela Mistlyre** (**18**), **District 2 Tribute**

She didn't expect to have any visitors, but the silence is broken by the shuffling of footsteps that lead to her door. She whips around to the door to find her trainers filing into the room.

"Hela, why didn't you volunteer sooner?" Athens berates her, an angry expression on his strong face.

"Because I didn't want to," Hela says coolly, tilting her head to meet him with her piercing emerald eyes.

Athens huffs angrily, and opens his mouth to continue their verbal sparring. Her hand-to-hand combat trainer, Ephoses Raith, cuts him off and speaks first. "Hela, we know just how prepared you are. Eighteen years the five of us have trained you for the Games."

"I know you'll make us proud," says Kree Agrath, her ranged combat trainer. "Just stick with the Careers until the rest of the competition has been eliminated. I know you can kill all of them if the need arises."

Alexandria is the last to speak, her strategy counselor. "Hela, look at me," she demands, meeting Hela withering glare with equal strength. "Don't align yourself with anyone but the Careers. You know how to play the Games. Secure the Cornucopia, distribute the supplies, hunt down the tributes."

With that, Peacekeepers flood the room in a white storm and remove her trainers, replacing them with Flarian and Lokir. Hela grins like a madwoman, and rises from the couch to embrace them both.

"I'm worried for you," Flarian says, brushing her hair out of her eyes with shaky fingers. Hela flinches at the level of twitchiness in her voice.

"You know I've got this," she says with a low voice. "Twenty four go into the arena, one comes out. And I fully intend for it to be me."

Flarian nods, the tears rolling down her cheeks. _Stupid woman_, Hela thinks. _We aren't close enough for tears_.

But where there should be tears, there are none. Lokir is stony-faced as she hugs Hela tightly, pressing something into her palm. "Good luck," her sister whispers. Hela opens her hand to see a beautiful necklace with a glowing blue gem at the center.

It's her token. She undoes the clasp and secures it around her neck. She snorts. "I won't need luck, sister."

* * *

**Moses Finch **(**18**), **District 2 Tribute**

His first visitor is his father, and Moses stands quickly to hug the tired looking man. He knows only one of his parents would have made it - the other would have had to return to the property to look after their guests.

"Your mother and I love you _very_ much, Moses," his father says, looking him in the eyes. "Know that this could change everything for us," he says. "You could be the Victor. No matter what happens in the end, though, we'll be proud of you, son."

His father slips him a dollar bill from the Dark Days of Panem, and Moses looks up with surprise. It's one of their most valuable heirlooms. "I want it to go with you, Moses," his dad says. "A reminder of where the Finch family has been, and a glimpse of where we could be."

With that they pull apart as the Peacekeepers knock on the door. "Love you, Dad." Moses says, hating how his voice cracks a little. The room is empty for a moment.

Then dread and fear fills his gut as Gideon's father marches into the room. "Hello, Moses," he says dangerously, his eyes full of hatred. Moses tenses up in fear, freezing on the spot. _How could they let this monster visit me?_

"If by some miracle, you do make it back to District 2 at the end of the Hunger Games," he warns, "Stay away from my son." He spits at Moses, who flinches away. "I won't have my son corrupted into homosexuality by a son-of-a-bitch like you." The man raises his hand as if to strike Moses, and he stumbles backwards, fear coursing through his veins as he remembers laying on the floor for hours, unable to get up after Mr. Cairo had beaten the boys so severely.

He laughs and whisks out of the room, taking the sharp cutting sound of his glee with him.

His place is filled by Aaron and Eve Israel just moments later, and Moses crosses the room to Eve instantly, taking her face into his hands. His lips find hers and she melts into his arms as he kissed her passionately. They draw apart, still holding each others hands, and he gazes into her familiar dark eyes.

"I know you can do it, Moses," Eve says, just audible enough for him to hear. "I love you." He repeats the phrase, but his heart burns with guilt. Moses has been dating Eve for a year now - and she's done so much for him - but deep inside himself he doesn't know if he's in love with Eve. It hurts to think of how hurt she would be if she knew how he really felt about Aaron.

The two boys had met during a training exercise at the Academy, both not born into wealth and old money, like most of the cadets. Both suppressing their bisexuality. And though the two had never gone any further than a simple embrace, Moses found himself thinking of Aaron when he was with Eve.

Eve gives him one last kiss on the cheek, and he draws her back in for another hug before she departs, leaving the room so the boys can be alone together.

"I know you, Moses." Aaron murmurs. "Don't let your heart cloud your head. It's a game for the heartless and cruel, like the Mistlyre girl. Don't let yourself change for the Capitol." He searches Moses' eyes for an answer, but receives none.

"I won't let them change me," Moses promises. A pause fills the room with silence, and Moses takes a tentative step forward. "If I'm to die today, or tomorrow, or a week in the future," he begins, almost choking on his words, "then I don't want to go without knowing."

"Knowing wha-" Aaron's cut off when Moses leans in for a kiss, and Aaron parts his lips in surprise. He takes this as an invitation, and kisses him deeply, resting his hand on the back of Aaron's head. Aaron pulls away.

"You're forgetting Eve," he protests.

"I'll remember the both of you," Moses whispers as the two draw in for another kiss. This time, Aaron finds his lips first. _Fuck Mr. Cairo_. _This is what feels right, _he thinks, closing his eyes. _This is me_.

* * *

**Author's Note****: there you have Moses and Hela! I hope I was able to portray them to their creator's desires, and I do apologize if I fell short. It took a while to get this one out, but I do believe it's twice the length of my other chapters, so there's that too.**

**District 2 Team:**

**\- Moses Finch, male D2 tribute**

** \- Elbio Delmont (Moses' Mentor), 10th Victor**

**\- Hela Mistlyre, female D2 tribute**

** \- Sierra Slayte (Hela's Mentor), 14th Victor**

** \- Porphyria, the Escort**

**Up next: District 11! No guesses on how long it'll take me to crank that out, but my sole intention is to not make these Reapings any less detailed or boring than the last. If you guys have any opinions on the tributes or constructive criticism you'd like to share, make sure to leave a review. Until next time! :)))**


	4. Chapter 4: Reapings Part 2

**Ugh! Yet another lengthy gap between updates, and a chapter I'm somehow less confident to post. The Reapings are brutal, and I'm only two in! We still have ten more to go ahhh! It doesn't help that I'm having to pull extra shifts at my job either, but I will not abandon this story. I couldn't do that to you. Anyway, here's District 11! *woohooo***

* * *

_All I ever wanted was somebody to hear me_

_And all I ever wanted was somebody to feel me_

_And everybody wanna tell me that I'm out of my head_

_You do what you wanted but you can't contain me_

-NF, All I Have

* * *

**Asher 'Wolfchild' Foster** (**17**)

The fields beyond his window are dark and ominous before the dawn. He's awake long before the sun crests the hills in the far distance, spilling like the yolk of a great golden egg to illuminate the world into existence. But what he saw in the fields last night has fled with the breaking of dawn, and now he isn't sure if it was fact or fiction.

But the further he squints into the distance, the more he can make out the blurred outlines. _The jackals are back_, he notices. _Damned creatures_. He tiredly pushes his hair out of his eyes; the wavy reddish fringe is in desperate need of trimming.

_Not that anyone in District 11 could afford the barbershop_. Apart from the merchant class, the District is infamous for being riddled with rural poverty. The great majority of the population was sent to the fields, or the orchards to spend their days doing back-breaking labor. He watches the jackals at the edge of the woods, before they turn tail and disappear into the shade. He clenches his fists as anger threatens to bubble up inside of him. He had been sent to guard the crops from them as punishment for his unruly behavior; and it had been a jackal that had nearly cost him his life.

Asher stiffens as he hears footsteps on the creaky stairs, and he returns to his sleeping cot, throwing the blanket over himself. The door cracks open and a lamp from the hall spills into the cool grey atmosphere of the room. "Get your lazy asses up!" croaks Martha, hitting a wooden spoon against a pot.

The twelve sleeping forms in the room stir uncomfortably as the banging continues. "Up, up up!" shouts the wizened woman. Asher rolls his eyes to the ceiling as he throws off the blanket and feigns exhaustion. The boys in the room begin to slowly rise from their beds, bracing their backs and rubbing the grit of sleep from their eyes.

"I expect you all to be up an' ready. The Capitol's comin' today, and I won't have my boys causin' a ruckus when they are. The Reapin's start in a coupla hours, an' I won't have the white dogs sniffin' around here for any of you delinquents," she demands. All of District 11's Relocation Houses are the same - hard and unforgiving - and Asher would know, he's been in and out of six of them. The orphanage system has always been flawed, and the high birth rates don't help the influx of children added to the system. He's one of many. A statistic. But he's determined to stand out. They don't call him the 'Wolfchild' for nothing.

Martha stops him at the door once the other children have all dutifully filed out of the sleeping room. "You ain't gonna be causin' me trouble, now are you?" she asks, her voice husky. Beady black eyes narrow as she looks up at the lanky teen with a grimace on her face.

Asher grins at her, baring his teeth. His elongated canines have always given him a feral look, and the look of unease in the caretaker's eyes ring true to the fact. "Don't count on it," he snarls, pushing past the crone and stepping into the halls. Her indignant squawking fills the hall behind him, but he hurries down the steps and throws open the rickety door before she can catch him.

He inhales sharply, allowing the warm summer air to fill his lungs. _They can't control me_. No matter how much they try, Asher always finds a way to remain unbent even through the plethora of hardships in District 11. _Fuck the white dogs_, he grins to himself as he hurries down the street and out of eyeshot. The Peacekeepers have been a blight on the agricultural district ever since the Dark Days, he knows. It's the amount of Capitol intervention and the astonishing number of citizens below the poverty line that has made them notorious for poor performance in the Games. It's why they, alongside District 8, only have a single Victor in all of twenty-eight years.

Asher rounds the corner and breaks into a full sprint, the rushing air cooling him down in the heat of the morning sun. He finally breaks his pace and stops in front of a run-down bar in the slums. The windows are grimy, the awning faded under the sun. But he knows he'll find his friends here. The owners turn a blind eye to the comings and goings of the orphans, he knows. The crime brings them a profit. The profit keeps them silent.

It's been a long-standing tradition for large groups of orphans to form gangs for protection. They're the worst in District 6. _Then again, everything's supposed to be a clusterfuck over there_, he chuckles, pushing open the door. A small bell dings and he allows his eyes to quickly adjust to the dark interior. He spots Faruq at the bar, his body angled toward the cup of whatever liquor he's nursing his hurts over.

"What's up?" Asher asks sliding onto the stool next to his friend. Faruq turns to him, his dark eyes shaded with misgivings.

"I'm worried again," he says. "The Reapings are never a good time of year. Caleb lost a valuable member last year, remember?" he inquires. Asher nods thoughtfully. Whenever an orphan is reaped for the Games, their gang has to work twice as hard to scrape by. _The Tracker Jackers had a hard year_.

"Well, it won't be one of ours," he says with a nonchalant grin on his face. "The Capitol wouldn't dare do that again." Of course, they didn't know that for sure, but after one of the Tracker Jackers had been reaped, the Peacekeepers were given hell on the streets.

Asher had gotten used to the punishments long before then, and being whipped once more in the public square didn't faze him. He wore the thick scars like shining golden trophies. _They can't control me_. Regardless of how many whippings he'd had, or how many night shifts he'd taken guarding the fields, Asher always returned from the bottom of the barrel with that same nonchalant grin on his face.

And he knows just how much it pisses them off.

* * *

_When you fall asleep inside my arms_

_May not have the fancy things_

_But I'll give you everything_

_You could ever want, it's in my arms_

-Lady Gaga, The Cure

* * *

**Tangaria Roolch** (**17**)

The pan sizzles angrily as the eggs begin to fry, the steam generated by their cooking curling up into the air. It's lost in the rafters of the house, and she watches her mother sprinkle a handful of spices into the pan, a warm smile on her face.

"Don't be nervous, child," she says, her voice soothing like honey. "We should be alright."

The words hang heavy in the air, like the steam, and Tangaria stirs the vegetables. The bright colors of the peppers are pleasing to the eye, and the smell of the onions as they caramelize make her mouth water. But it's rare that they have a meal so nice. Feeding eight children has taken its toll on her parents, and she can see it in his eyes when her father comes home from a long day in the fields. The majority of District 11 has to scrape by for their next meal, despite producing the majority of fruits and vegetables in Panem.

Habal's chickens have been a blessing. Her older brother traded so much for the hens, but the fresh supply of eggs has kept her family fed with protein for a while now. But the amount of food she and her mother are preparing is a rare occurrence. But today is no ordinary day. Today, she and her three sisters must face the prospect of being Reaped for the annual Hunger Games.

Her brothers are lucky. With Tormil's birthday just a week before, the three of them are past Reaping age. And little Gravnu is only seven, too young to be worried about being drawn for the Games. "Are you sure?" she asks tentatively, stirring the vegetables.

"Yes, Tangaria," her mother smiles. "You and your sisters should be fine. There are children who have taken far more tesserae than you all have." It's still not enough to shake her doubts though. At age seventeen, her name is in the ball fifteen times. Every year, she and her sisters take out two portions of grain, meaning their names are entered three times each.

It's a risk, but it keeps her family fed.

She and her mother finish up cooking breakfast just as Miram and Talitha come thundering down the stairs. The girls share the only room on the upper floor, and the windows offer a great view of the valley on the other side of their roof. Though they're just two years apart, the two share a great bond. But it's Talitha's first Reaping, and the three slips with her name on it plague Tangaria's mind day and night.

"Where's Father?" asks Vira from the top of the stairs, holding Gravnu's hand as they descend into the main room. Vira, just a year younger than Tangaria, is the quietest of the bunch.

"He and your brothers should be coming back soon." her mother replies. The sisters got the day off to prepare for the Reapings, though her father and brothers still had to work an early shift in the fields. She was glad for the break from the orchards. Climbing the trees to collect fruits was dangerous work. _And it cost you_, she thinks, glancing down at her leg.

She hated the limp. Though it had been nine years since the injury - and she had grown accustomed to the affliction - she loathed how it made her feel. Before, she had been just as competitive as her older brothers, often joining them in their games. Though the competitive edge had never left her, the addition of four more children to the Roolch family had meant she needed to find work in order to help support them.

She knew she pulled her own weight, and more. Taking care of the younger ones was what she did when her parents were distracted and her brothers rowdy in the town, all riled up and laughing with the other fieldhands. She serves helpings of breakfast on chipped plates, and her siblings crowd around the small kitchen to receive their portions. Her plate is laden with two eggs and sauteed vegetables, which she wolfs down quickly.

Her brothers then barge through the door, wiping sweat from their brows and sitting down around the table. Her mother hands them plates, and gives her father a kiss before setting him down to eat with the rest of his family. The room is quiet for a moment, as all ten family members clear their plates. Her father then takes the plates and stacks them next to the sink, for washing. He returns to the table looking grim.

"Talitha, it's your first Reaping," he says, not unkindly. "Just know that you're going to be okay, alright? I know it is scary but I promise you there's no need to be worried about getting your name drawn. The Capitol hag will pick a different girl."

Her mother shoots him a dirty look, and he amends himself. It's not advised to speak ill of the Capitolites or the Peacekeepers. _Such talk causes unrest, and unrest causes rebellion_, she knows. And the Capitol isn't something to be messed with.

Talitha nods, oblivious. "They were both orphans last year, daddy." her smile is too innocent, her eyes too bright. Tangaria sighs. She doesn't quite understand the Reapings yet. All it takes is a few pretty words from her parents and her bravado remains intact.

Her brothers have broken away from the table, and taken little Gravnu with them. The four of them will not have to stand in the square, directly under the crosshairs of the cameras. They will stand outside, with their parents, watching with bated breath to hear a name which isn't their daughters. Her mother ushers her and her sisters away from the table and up the stairs.

Her sisters will wear her old reaping clothes, passed down from her mother. But each year, a different dress is unboxed and dusted off from the dark confines of the closet. This year, her mother takes a beautiful green dress out of the closet and hands it to her.

Her mother's steely gray eyes meet hers as she presses the faded green dress to her daughter's chest. "I've told you every year, Tan. You have nothing to fear." She offers a smile.

But deep in her gut, the worry gnaws away at her insides.

* * *

**Asher **'**Wolfchild**' **Foster **(**17**)

The square is lined with the Peacekeepers, their uniforms immaculate and clean. Beyond them, the ragged families of those with blood ties left in this dusty world. It's for this reason he hates his last name. _Foster_. He spits in the dust, oblivious to the look of disgust shot at him by a passing woman.

It's the name given to all foster children, to all orphans in the District. _Like we're some great mockery of a family_, he groans internally. He's chosen his own family in Caleb and Faruq, both flanking him as they arrive at the square.

Asher fiddles with the lapels of his shirt, tucking the stained corner into his worn suit jacket. It's wet with blood, and he smirks as he sees the boy cover and pinch his bloody nose across the square. They lock eyes, and Asher bares his canines aggressively at the boy, who quickly turns back toward the empty stage.

They know not to mess with the Wolfchild. He's unbeaten on the streets, mainly due to his gloves. After the jackal had attacked him in the fields, he'd killed the creature and dragged its limp carcass back into town. The claws… the claws he'd kept, fashioning gloves from them. They gave him the edge in every skirmish, and alongside his penchant for unruly and restless behavior, earned him the nickname.

His prowess in the streets had incited a great deal of fury from the Peacekeepers, and though even their brutal punishments could not beat him either, there was one thing that could. _The goddamn sun_. He sighs, the air blown from his mouth tousling his fiery hair.

_Three years_. _That's all I've got_. That's what the officials had begrudgingly told him after pricking him for the last year's Reapings. _Down to two_, he thinks as he and his friends fall into the line, where the medical professional works quickly to both take a census of the children but also check them for dangerous diseases and conditions. Luckily, the camera only films them filing into the square, saving the plight of District 11 from precious Capitol eyes.

Faruq waits for them on the other side before they find a spot to stand in the boys section to the left side of the stage. By now, the escort has made her appearance. The mayor is shaking her hand, but the lone Victor sits to the side, her eyes betraying her dislike for the escort.

"She looks damn special this year, don't she?" Caleb asks with a roguish wink. Asher couldn't disagree more. The escort, whose name he has forgotten, wears a powder blue wig that clashes uncomfortably with her frilly, pumpkin-colored dress. The woman has got to be nearing fifty, she's been standing on that stage since Asher was young and alone in the crowd behind the Peacekeepers.

"Better than last year," guffaws Faruq. Their conversation is brought to a halt as the square falls into silence as the woman grips the microphone. The mayor must have already given his speech by the time the trio had even walked into the square, and Asher is suddenly aware of the teams of camera crews surrounding them.

"Happy Hunger Games to you, District Eleven!" cries the woman on stage, her painted lips opening carefully to issue the words. "As usual, ladies first!" She says with too much enthusiasm. She crosses the stage and dips her hand in the bowl, picking the first name her fingers close around. "Our female tribute for this year's Hunger Games: Talitha Roolch!"

He doesn't have a moment to blink before the words ring across the square. "I volunteer!" cries a strangled voice from the girl's section. "I volunteer!" the voice says a second time, clearer and stronger. The speaker hurries from the uniform line of girls and draws the other girl in for a hug.

"Tangaria!" screams the younger girl.

"Get back in line," the girl breathes hard, kissing her sister on the forehead and ascending the steps. She's small, and thin, with her hair put into a braid. _Hell, even her facial features are delicate_, he notes. But it's the tiniest indication of a limp that signals to him that District 11 could be in for another rough year.

The escort is clapping enthusiastically. "What's your name?" she asks, holding the microphone out to the girl who had just volunteered.

* * *

**Tangaria Roolch** (**17**), **District 11 Tribute**

_We're being filmed_. _Live_. The fact hits her the moment she climbs up onto the stage. _The nation is watching_. It hits her like a kick to the gut and she's blinded for a moment. Fear drums up inside her head as she realizes that saving her sister almost spells certain death for herself.

_What did I just volunteer for?_ she asks herself, absentmindedly telling the crowd her name, staring out at the cameras. She knows its her face on the televisions in the Capitol, broadcast for all to see, and she tries to squash her fear.

"It's been quite some time since we've had a volunteer," the escort says. Tangaria's lost, though. The world is deaf and she's mute, her mind racing. _Nothing to fear_, her mother seems to say, the words echoing inside her head. _Nothing to fear at all_.

By now, the escort has crossed the stage, her ridiculous blue locks swinging. Tangaria wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all. A second slip of paper is drawn, and the woman speaks again.

"Our male tribute is Faruq Foster!" she says, on her tiptoes with excitement and anticipation. _An orphan_, her mind registers blankly. _How sad_.

The crowd doesn't disappoint.

"I volunteer!" calls a second voice from the throng of boys. A very tall boy steps from between them. His skin is so pale - he stands out a great deal from the other boys - and Tangaria finds herself confused, then filled with dread as he jogs past the other boy and mounts the stage.

He's the Wolfchild.

The escort is the only one applauding, practically jumping up and down. "Two volunteers!" she exclaims toward the cameras in a singsong voice. "What's your name, darling?"

The boy grins at the Peacekeepers lining the square. "They know my name," he says cheekily. A Peacekeeper angrily hits the back of his head, and the boy whips around with a scowl on his face. "What the hell, man?" he shouts angrily.

"It's Asher Foster," the white-clad man hastily informs the escort.

The woman, desperately trying to avoid the conflict, practically screams at the cameras. "There you have it, ladies and gentlemen! Our tributes for District 11: Asher Foster and Tangaria Roolch!" Contrary to what Tangaria would imagine the Career Districts to sound like, you could hear a pin drop in District 11.

The cameras cut, and the Peacekeepers usher them into the Justice Building. She notices two boys sprinting for the stage as three of them manhandle the redhead tribute to the doors. She goes willingly, understanding what's next to come.

Her family hurries through the door just moments after they leave her inside, and she's engulfed by her nine family members, smothered in hugs and affection. No one says anything for the longest time, and she can see her parents blinking back tears.

"We love you so much, Tangaria," her mother sobs, the tears finally breaking free from her eyes.

Her brothers wipe tears from their own. "I know you have what it takes. You've got the competitive edge," her brother Habal manages to choke out.

"We'll be waiting for you to come home," her father says warmly. She holds him tight, breathing in the scent of the fields from the creases of his jacket. When they pull apart, her sisters are waiting for her. Talitha wraps a green silk scarf around her neck.

"It goes with your dress," Vira says, choking on a sob. Talitha wraps her arms around her big sister, her tears wet on Tangaria's shoulder. Her family gives her last embraces.

"You're a survivor, Tangaria," her mother says. "I know you are." The Peacekeeper comes to the door and signals the end of the visit, and within a moment, she's alone again. She squares her shoulders, unsure of the future. But she knows she's determined to survive it.

* * *

**Asher** '**Wolfchild**' **Foster** (**17**), **District 11 Tribute**

They dump him unceremoniously onto the hard marbled floor of the justice building, laughing and jeering. "That's one way to get rid of this asshole," one of the white dogs chuckles from behind his black visor. They shut the door before he has a chance to shout back at them, and he's left alone in the oppressive silence of the room.

He's seething, gritting his teeth and kicking the plush futon on the back wall. He sits, frustrated, with a slouch on the futon, training his eyes on the door. A million thoughts race through his head. When does the fighting start? What will the other tributes be like?

Will I come home alive?

He's interrupted as the door is flung open by Caleb and Faruq, who both charge in past the Peacekeepers. Caleb closes the door behind him. "What the _fuck_ were you thinking?" Faruq yells, his voice cracking.

He looks up, startled. This wasn't the reunion he had in mind. "W-What do you mean, Faruq? I'm looking after you back is what I'm thinking!" Asher runs a hand through his hair, letting it fall into his dark blue eyes. He exhales angrily.

Faruq produces a knife from his sleeve. He cuts quickly into the palm of his hand, and instructs Caleb and Asher to do the same. "We choose our family here," he says.

"Cut the sentimental shit," Asher jokes, cracking a strained smile. They each press their palms to his, and he pulls back his hand, slick and red with their blood. Caleb hands him his gloves, except the jackal's claws are missing from their place between the fingers.

"They're inside the gloves. To the white dogs, it'll look like regular gloves. I removed them for you… when you put them on the claws should poke through the leather." Caleb says, embracing his friend. "Take out as many of those assholes as you can."

"You better not die before I do," Asher tells the pair of them as the Peacekeepers whisk them away. _I'm going to die anyway_, he flexes his hands in the gloves.

Might as well give them a show.

* * *

**Author's Note****: there you have Asher and Tangaria! I hope I was able to portray them to their creator's desires, and I do apologize if I fell short. It took a while to get this one out, and it's a little shorter than the last one, I do apologize. Plus I think it got a little obvious as I neared the end of the chapter, I began to run out of steam. But I thought it'd be better to just finally churn out the next chapter. Leave as many facepalms as necessary in the reviews, I guess.**

**District 11 Team:**

**Asher 'Wolfchild' Foster, male D11 tribute**

**Tangaria Roolch, female D11 tribute**

**Magnolia Burten (Mentor of both), 18th Victor**

**Olinnea, the Escort**

**Up next: District 7! As usual, any critiques or first impressions are welcome. :)**


	5. Chapter 5: Reapings Part 3

**DISTRICT THREE**

* * *

_The negativity is ruining your sleep_

_It makes you wanna cry on your pillow_

_The negativity is controlling your dreams_

_So say, hello there, something only I know_

-The Futureheads, Struck Dumb

* * *

**Brita Edison** (**17**)

She pushes her auburn hair out of her face for the umpteenth time, and sighs, taking the hair tie off her wrist and pulling her hair into a loose ponytail.

"You looked better with it covering your face," jokes her friend, Artemis. His mouth is quirked into a smile, and he watches her with amused eyes.

"It's a shame _your_ hair isn't longer," she retorts.

Artemis pretends to hang his head in mock defeat, until Sage, her other friend, punches him playfully in the shoulder. "C'mon Artemis," she giggles. "You don't need to act like a child." _He already is_, thinks Brita, marching ahead of her friends on the cracked sidewalk. The buildings cluster in on all sides of them, a far cry from the spacious home she used to occupy when her parents were still around.

Her breath hitches in her throat and she pushes away the thought. _They're gone now_, she thinks, furrowing her brow. _They've been gone for five years_.

Her parents are - were - technicians for the Arena. They held jobs traveling to and from the Capitol, often entrusting her in the care of her older brother, Darwin. She remembers, though. When she was twelve, they never came back.

Suspected rebels. _Traitors_. The Edison family name became a household word for the months to follow after her parents' disappearance. Presumably, the Capitol had executed them.

The sound of Sage's voice breaks her out of her reverie, and she snaps to attention. "What was that?" she asks sheepishly, fidgeting with her fingers.

"I was just asking you what you'd like to do after the Reapings are over," her friend asks. Brita looks up and meets Sage's electric green eyes with her own light brown ones. For a moment, she thinks she can see something there, hidden just behind the questioning look she's being given.

"I could borrow some more cash from Darwin, and we could go grab a bite to eat," she suggests casually, almost forgetting Artemis is standing just behind her.

"And I'm invited too, of course?"

Brita shrugs. "So long as you can stay on your feet by the time we're done," she prods him in the chest. Artemis has a habit of slipping vodka into his drinks.

He groans. "Fine, but it's your treat." To this, Brita rolls her eyes. Though her parents left behind a considerable sum of money, she's gotten tired of paying for his meals when he never pays her back.

The trio passes a homeless man, huddled on a doorstep with a blanket drawn over his body, despite the mild conditions of the spring day. She digs into her pocket and tosses a couple of spare coins his way, and he opens his drooping eyelids to scoop them off the cracked concrete.

For a moment, she wonders what it would be like to have to sleep on the streets. Of course, even she isn't immune to the poverty of District 3. She's had to take out tesserae during particularly hard winters, but she's always been careful to take out only what they needed.

None of them speak for a moment, simply walking along the winding streets, the acrid smell of burning rubber fresh in the air. "I won't lie, I'm a little nervous for the Reapings," Sage admits.

Brita immediately feels guilty. Sage is the least wealthy of the three of them, and she and her younger brother have both needed much more tesserae than Brita and Artemis combined. "Think of it this way," Artemis says matter-of-factly. "After today, we only have to make it through one more Reaping and then we have the rest of our lives ahead of us."

This seems to soothe Sage's frayed nerves a little, and they loop around the block to head back the way they came. They all go their own separate ways, and Brita finishes the last leg of her journey alone.

She fumbles with her keys for a moment but manages to open the apartment door. She and Darwin moved out of the wealthier sector of town to avoid attracting the wrong kind of publicity after their parents disappeared. _And the house _still feels empty without them, she frowns.

She quickly gets dressed in her mother's yellow dress and finds herself tugging at the hem. It fits awkwardly, and she groans internally. She can't wait until this is over so she can change into something more practical.

Darwin knocks politely on her door before slipping into her room and sitting on the edge of her bed with an apple in his hand. He takes a bite and between mouthfuls, asks her if she's ready for the Reapings.

"I'm as ready as I'll ever be," she murmurs under her breath, calming her face in the mirror.

* * *

"_Curiosity did not kill the cat. Stupidity must have._"

-Unknown

* * *

**Edward Nelson** (**12**)

He watches, his brows knitted in fascination as he stares intently at the television screen. On it, he's watching a recap of the First Quarter Quell. Aurelia Dior, his idol, is on the screen.

He grins as he watches her knife sink into the boy's throat, the serrated edge lodging under his chin. He collapses a few feet from the treeline and soaks the grass with his lifeblood. She pulls twin swords from her back and whips around to face her final opponent.

The grass is slick from the rain and the boy's blood, but the Aurelia is undeterred, lunging at the last boy, and -

The television screen goes black, and Edward groans frustratedly. His mother stands against the wall, her arms folded. "Edward," she says placatedly. "You know your father and I don't want you to waste your day watching the tapes like that."

"But Mom!" he protests, "I didn't even get to see Aurelia win!" He pushes out his lower lip, making a pouting face at his mother.

His mother shakes her head, sighing in defeat. "Get ready for the Reapings, Edward. They start in an hour or so. And I know it's your first Reaping. Don't get excited, and by God, don't even think about volunteering for the Games. You saw what happened to District 3 last year."

Of course he had. Since a young age, when his father was employed to help design muttations for the Capitol, Edward had developed an obsession with the Hunger Games. He longed to one day meet the Gamemakers, or work alongside them as his father does. But the only way he knows he'll be able to do that is by being Reaped.

And with steady Capitol income, his chances are slim to none. Edward huffs and storms up the stairs, feeling his mother's eyes follow him to his room. Once the door is shut, he flops onto his bed and stares at the ceiling. His obsession has led to isolation from his peers, as the majority of eligible children from District 3 lived in fear of being Reaped and sent away to the Capitol.

But not Edward. He slides off his bed, the bedspread wrinkled where he had lain. He dresses quickly in front of a mirror, pulling up his jeans and tightening the belt. He throws on a blue suit jacket, and twists in the mirror. He looks presentable, at the least.

He takes a deep breath to calm himself. Once the Reapings begin, he'll be on live TV. Regardless of if he's chosen or not, he knows he needs to make a good impression in case his name is drawn in the future. _After all, after today, I still have six more opportunities to enter the Games_.

He adjusts the lapels smartly and heads downstairs, his shoes thumping against the polished wood. His father waits for him at the end of the stairs, his mouth a thin line. "Edward, we need to talk about this again. You can't keep idolizing the Games like this. They're taking away children - you're absolutely delusional!"

Edward looks insulted. "I'm not delusional. The Hunger Games are amazing! You work on them; I know you agree." _It's true, there's something satisfying about watching the violent process of elimination on screen_.

His father's voice takes a hard edge. "I do not agree with you. I might work for the Gamemakers, but I don't agree with what they do, especially after what happened to the Petyr and Adalia Edison." He says, his voice softening. "They didn't deserve any of that."

"Well they were going to mess up the Games!" Edward whines. "_You_ know what you're doing, at least."

"Don't you see how twisted your mentality is?" he asks his son. "Beth, help me out here," he says to his wife.

"Think about how heartbreaking it would be for us if you went into the Games!" She exclaims. "That's what it's like for twenty-three families every year!" She makes to continue her lecture, but the Reaping bell sounds from the town square, and by now, Edward isn't listening anymore.

He's out the door by the time the second bell begins, leaving his parents behind to console each other.

He races down the narrow, twisting streets of District 3. The homes are almost all apartments, save the few rich areas in the northern sector of town. The buildings are crammed in a haphazard fashion along the streets, wild and unplanned the further from the town plaza you get. He lives near the northern sector, just close enough to match their status, just far enough to protect his father's identity.

The plaza is already filling with people, and the Peacekeepers dressed in white direct the flow of foot traffic, taking small blood samples from the children as they're herded into the roped off areas designated for their age groups and genders.

He waits impatiently in line, watching as District 3's only two Victors climb onto the stage and shake hands with the escort, a woman with elaborate bright yellow hair and a smart pink dress.

Her name is Bellina, he knows, and he's watched her from the perimeter of the square every year until now, marveling at her unique Capitol accent, with its lilting sentences and clipped vowels.

Slowly, the plaza fills in all its empty patches, and all eyes turn to the stage, where the mayor stands at his podium with the escort, who is delicately making sure her curls are still in place as the cameras begin rolling.

"Hello, citizens of District 3!" Bellina coos, a dazzling smile lighting up her face. "Happy Hunger Games to you all! Today is a _very_ special day…"

Edward puffs out his chest, watching the stage intently.

Very special indeed.

* * *

**Brita Edison** (**17**)

She tugs frustratedly at her dress once more as the escort mounts the stage and gives the mayor a limp handshake. She takes to the microphone and introduces herself. _Why does it matter? We all know who she is_.

In truth, their escort is the only direct contact District 3 has with their neighbors, the Capitol. Often some designers or technicians, like her parents, would travel out to go and discuss things with them, but apart from Bellina, no one comes to visit them in District 3.

She can tell by the woman's facial expression that though she is excited for this year's Hunger Games, she wishes she had been placed in a better-performing District. _Shame that she couldn't work with the Careers_, they always do well in the Games.

Her thoughts stray far from the Reapings, and she finds herself bored, staring at the back of the girl's head who is standing in front of her. The mayor slowly reads the Treaty of Treason, as he does every year, taking extra care to enunciate and pronounce his words correctly for the cameras. _Not like we already get shit on by the Capitol anyway_, she scoffs.

He finally finishes and the escort stands up from where she had seated herself, passing District 3's only two Victors. They hadn't had another Victor in sixteen years, yet at least their track record was better than that of some of the outlier Districts.

The woman continues to touch her curls as she speaks to the crowd, which Brita finds rather annoying. She wonders for a moment what the escort must do outside of the Hunger Games. Does she just sit around all day drinking wine?

She watches as the escort tries to walk in heels too high to the girl's reaping ball. She dips manicured nails into the surplus of paper slips and slowly, dramatically extracts one. She holds it up to the sun and reads two words that make Brita's heart stop.

"Brita Edison!"

She swallows the lump that has risen in her throat as she hears a strangled cry from the ranks of citizens lining the square. She tries to compose herself as she steps from the perfect lines of children, a lone figure in a sea of well-arranged dots. _One foot in front of the other_, she tells herself as she makes her way up to the stage, where she shakes the escort's hand. She smells overwhelmingly of flowers, and Brita recoils at how cold the woman feels.

"How exciting! And for the male tribute who has the _honor_ of competing," she trills. "Edward Nelson!"

Brita looks around in the crowd and her eyes land on a small, skinny boy with wavy brown hair. He can't be much older than twelve. A cheer has torn from his lips, and the crowd stands in startled silence as the boy ducks his head quickly in embarrassment. He hurries up the steps and onto the stage.

He shakes the escort's hand excitedly. "Pleasure to meet you, Bellina," he tells her. The escort's eyes widen at his enthusiasm. "Pleasure to meet you too, Mr. Nelson," she stage whispers.

"There you have it!" she calls into the microphone, the ending of her sentence causing the microphone to crackle. "Everyone give our tributes for the 29th Annual Hunger Games a round of applause!" she cheers; maniacally happy.

A small smattering of applause fills the plaza, and Brita just can't help wondering how well their reception will be in the Capitol. Her eyes scan the crowd and she lifts her chin as the cameras focus on them, faltering only when her eyes land on Sage's horrified expression.

* * *

**Edward Nelson** (**12**), **District 3 Tribute**

His father is the only one who visits him. "God damnit!" the man shouts, throwing a pillow across the room before sinking onto the couch and vigorously rubbing his face with his hands.

"Beth won't even come, she's too distraught! I can't believe you've been Reaped..." his father continues talking, but the words fall into the empty room. Edward isn't listening, lost in euphoria. _I'm going into the Hunger Games!_

"... we knew that one day you'd have to face the facts and realize the harsh truth, Edward. The Games aren't a joke. Maybe your life on the line will help you reconsider how you feel about them. You fantasize over death, Edward! How is that amusing?"

Edward sits calmly on the slick velvet couch, running his fingers through the fabric. He smooths it back and meets his father's eyes. "Death isn't amusing. Death is just one piece, one rule in the gameplay. The pageantry." He doesn't expect his father to understand his morbid fascination of the level of gameplay and gore involved in the Hunger Games.

"Edward…" his father's voice cracks.

Whatever else his father may have said is cut short by the arrival of the Peacekeepers. His father gives him a kiss on the forehead before being dragged out.

_It doesn't matter what he thinks_. Edward decides. _I've never been more excited for anything in my life._

* * *

**Brita Edison** (**17**), **District 3 Tribute**

As expected, Sage is the first one through the door. She wraps her arms around Brita and buries her face into her neck. She smells like the wind and the sun, she smells like freedom, and Brita imagines if only for a brief moment, what kissing her would feel like.

The girls draw apart, and she sees her friends' eyes are blotchy and red from tears. "Brita, you have to promise me you're going to come back," she sobs, wiping the tears from her eyes with the heel of her hand.

Brita can feel the tears in her eyes too and blinks them back. Another figure appears in the doorway, and Artemis crushes her in a tight embrace. "We love you, Brita. We'll be here rooting for you, you know that, right?" He asks, staring into her eyes.

She nods slowly, etching their faces into her memory. She will need to draw her inner strength from the only people she knows truly care about her.

They're soon replaced by Darwin, who enters shuffling his feet. His face is already stricken with grief. "I can't lose you, too," he says tearfully. They stand locked in their embrace until he breaks away.

"I meant to give this to you when you turned eighteen," he says. "But..." his voice breaks. "But now, you might not have that chance."

He produces a necklace from his pocket. "It's a data file. Mom and Dad are… they're on it, Brita. Faces, voices, everything. I want you to know that just like your friends, just like me, wherever the two of them are… they're with you."

For the first time today, Brita fully allows herself to break down and cry. Her brother clasps it around her neck and holds her close to his chest. "I love you Darwin," she whispers.

"I love you too."

* * *

**DISTRICT SEVEN**

* * *

_Where we're from, there's no sun_

_Our hometown's in the dark_

_Where we're from, we're no one_

_Our hometown's in the dark_

-Twenty One Pilots, Hometown

* * *

**Winston Thorn** (**18**)

The gentle swaying of the trees would calm him if the morning's circumstances were different. Instead, the shadows seem malevolent as they flit between the trees. He scans the undergrowth anxiously. "Tobin!" he calls, his voice taking on a slight worried edge.

"Where are you?" His heart is pounding as he twists in circles, looking around into the shadows, and he curses out loud when she darts out from the underbrush. "Damn it, Tobin!" he shouts in surprise, breathing hard.

His voice softens as he gives her a tight hug. "Thank God you're safe. Why did you run off like that?" He looks down at her, a disappointed look on his face.

"One of the boys at school told me he didn't think I could survive a night alone in the woods." She shrugs it off like it's nothing, dismissing her impulsive behavior. _It's getting harder to keep her out of trouble these days_, Winston thinks.

"You know Mom and Dad were worried _sick_ about you, right?" he asks, his voice raising an octave. "Hell, I was worried about you too!" He sighs. "You know we just want to keep you safe, right? Just because our fences are a lot further back doesn't mean it's safe to go exploring alone."

She rolls her eyes and stamps her foot on the ground. "I survived, didn't I?" She tucks her hands into her pockets and starts off on the dusty path back home.

_It's Tobin's second Reaping_. Naturally, he understands her nervousness. If he had to guess, it's the reason she ran off. But the chances of her name, at age 13, are very slim. _Both tributes last year were poverty-line sixteen-year olds_. The Thorn family had always been able to keep themselves just above it, working hard to ensure that they didn't fall victim to the tesserae.

But still, Winston's name was in the ball seven times.

He sighs exasperatedly and jogs after his sister. The trees seem lighter now that she has been found, and he inhales the sharp scent of sawdust that fills the air of District 7. He's been around that smell all his life - his father had begun teaching him at a young age how to work the lumberyards - and feels almost comforted by the scent of the wood.

He steps gingerly around a felled log and enters the lumberyard behind his sister. This early in the morning, the yard is normally just beginning to stir into life. Today, however, it's vacant save for a lone figure splitting logs with a heavy axe.

The figure looks up and wipes his brow. "Winston!" He calls excitedly. "Find your sister?" Winston nods his head to his sister, sitting among a pile of wood.

Tobias chuckles. "I almost didn't see her there; no wonder you lost track of her." Winston groans at the banter. He's the one who has to keep an eye on his sister, as his father Donnis is always busy with managing the yard, and his mother Celia is busy with her bakery sales.

He'd met Tobias when he was fifteen and the older boy just a year ahead of him. The two had gotten jobs at the lumberyard and had grown into a steady friendship since. Of course, his best friend loved to mess with him and his sister. He never really meant it though.

"Nervous for the Reapings? It's your last year, you know," Tobias says with a wan smile.

Winston nods. "A little bit. More worried for this one," he says, jerking his thumb at Tobin, who makes a noise of objection at his statement.

Tobias grins. "You talked to Bloom lately? I was thinking we could grab some drinks after the Reapings are finished."

Winston's expression sours slightly. Bloom… he hasn't spoken to Bloom in ages. Ever since her younger brother was Reaped and killed in the Games two years ago, Bloom had grown distant. They had picked back up their relationship somewhat before the last Games, but Bloom sank back into her depression soon after.

"No," he says bitterly. "I haven't spoken to her in a while." He wishes he had. He wishes her brother was never Reaped. _Bloom is the only one I want_.

Tobias grins like a little kid as Bloom appears from the mid-morning mist, a sad half-smile on her face. "Bloom!" he barely manages to get the words out. He wraps himself around her and finds the heat of her lips. She kisses him back tenderly, her breath fluttering against his cheek as she draws away, like a butterfly. There for an instant, gone in a flash.

_If I can survive today_, he reflects, _I'll have the rest of my life to love her_.

* * *

_See, someone said, "Don't drink her potions"_

_She'll kiss your neck with no emotion_

_Oh, she's sweet but a psycho_

_A little bit psycho_

-Ava Max, Sweet But Psycho

* * *

**Sebastiana Ridgewood** (**12**)

"Did you _hear_ what Adam did?" she asks Saylie with an impish grin on her face. The cacophony of dishes and utensils that fills the restaurant makes it a little hard to hear, but the chaos comes with the title of best restaurant in town.

Her twin sister arches an eyebrow. "What did he do?"

"Oh, nothing much. Just that he kissed another girl," she shrugs nonchalantly. Adam… Adam was a good kisser for his age. Thirteen, and already developing muscles from his summer job carting lumber. But she had grown tired of him within a week or so and turned her eyes on fresher prospects.

"Bash, _you_ kissed another girl too," her sister points out, giggling a little.

Sebastiana lowers her voice as a waitress walks by. "But Ada and I are dating now. Adam kissed a different girl, when we were together!" she exclaims in disbelief. "Everyone needs to know this!"

Her sister rolls her eyes, the warm brown irises betraying how fed up she is with the conversation. "You spread enough rumors as it is. Remember Zoella? From two weeks ago?"

It's Sebastiana's turn to roll her eyes. "You know Zoella didn't know what she was doing! I don't think she was even interested in me." She crosses her arms in a gesture of mock anger.

"How can you expect the other twelve-year olds to have a grasp on their feelings?" A new voice says. Her older sister, Avalynn, is balancing a tray precariously on her arm. "Half of them are just beginning to hit puberty. You expect them to know if they're going to like boys or girls?" She laughs and sets the tray down at the table next to theirs, serving the guests quickly and offering them a warm smile before returning to the booth where the twins sit.

"Speaking of that, your 'girlfriend' is outside." Avalynn informs her. "But make it quick, Dad needs help cleaning up the restaurant before the Reapings. We got hit kinda hard with breakfast today," she says.

Sebastiana perks up at this revelation. Ada is outside? "If you'll excuse me then," she tells her sister, sliding out of the booth. Her two sisters exchange a glance behind her back, but she's too preoccupied to notice. She pushes her way out the door and stops under the awning. It's red and white stripes are beginning to fade, she notes, but Ada's smile sure isn't.

She steps off the doorstep and takes her girlfriend's hands, looking her in the eyes before leaning in for a kiss. It's a little clumsier than she would like, but then again, she's likely the first kiss Ada's ever had.

They draw apart, eyes glittering, and Sebastiana shoves her hands in her pockets. The two walk down the gravel path, wet from the morning's mist, in an awkward silence.

She takes her hands out of her pockets and laces her fingers with Ada's, giving her a quick side glance. The girl is beaming. "How have you been?" she asks.

"The restaurant's been busy," Sebastiana replies. "I've been good though, Dad didn't make me help out much today because of the Reapings, but I have to go help clean up." She makes a face, and Ada laughs at it.

The two continue walking, the bustle of the town growing fainter behind them. Sebastiana uses her free hand to push her short, messy black hair out of her eyes before turning to look at her girlfriend.

"Bash, are you nervous for the Reapings?" Ada asks her. "After all, it's our first one." She casts her eyes down, looking guilty for admitting her worry.

_Yes. No. Maybe?_ In truth, Sebastiana doesn't know what to make of the Reapings. After all, both Avalynn and Lilas, her brother, have survived all their years of being entered into it. "Not really," she winds up saying. "We're the lowest age possible to Reap. I don't think it'll be us." She grins encouragingly at her naïve companion. Adam wasn't naïve - he knew how the world worked - but it isn't Adam she's dating now.

Her family disapproves of her plethora of relationships, she knows. _But I can't help it! People are just so beautiful_, she thinks. They finish their brisk walk and separate at Ada's doorstep so they can prepare for the event accordingly. "Bye, Bash! See you after the Reapings!" her girlfriend gushes cheerily.

"Bye Ada!" Sebastiana calls back before she heads back, alone for the first time in a long time. The trail to town feels a little colder without someone by her side.

* * *

**Winston Thorn** (**18**)

He stands in the middle of the town square. All the vendor's carts have been pushed aside to accommodate the sudden influx of children.

The Escort stands at attention on the stage, and the camera crews dot the rooftops and columns between the solid rows of children, ready to capture the moment the unlucky ones have their names drawn.

From what he can remember, she's fairly new to the District, having been promoted from District 12 in years past. They're always looking to be promoted out of the lower Districts, because they tend to produce weaker tributes. It seems that the further you get from the Capitol, the harsher the rules seem to be.

"Good morning, District 7!" calls the Escort, staring at the cameras directly in front of her. "You all know why you're here. When the Capitol defeated the r…" by now, Winston isn't listening. He's watching the screen above the stage. It's zoomed out for now, but he knows that it will center on whoever is Reaped.

_They'll go live. Panem is watching._

He shifts uncomfortably, not at just the thought, but because of the clothes his parents made him wear today. A far cry from the worn flannels and jeans he's used to, today he sports an off-white collared shirt and pants. The only thing remotely _him_ is the boots.

He wonders for a minute how Bloom's brother must have felt, being plastered onto the screens for everyone to watch him. _For their amusement._

Winston watches the escort. Her pea green hair is done up - with what he can only imagine is an extraordinary amount of hairspray - into the shape of an evergreen tree. _How ridiculous_.

She dips a pale hand into the jar, and the crowd of children waits for a name.

She unfolds the paper, wets her lips, and calls it. "Sebastiana Ridgewood, you have the honor of competing in this year's Hunger Games!"

* * *

**Sebastiana Ridgewood** (**12**), **District 7 Tribute**

Shock hits her like an axe splitting wood, right into her center. Surprised, she slips from the rows of girls in the back, where she knows Ada must be too.

How false her words from earlier feel. It's a long walk to the stage, and her dress - a collared dark green one - doesn't make the task any easier. She watches her face on the screen, offering a charismatic smile before heading up to meet the escort.

She shakes her hand, staring at the woman's very plump (and probably filled) lips.

"Pleasure to meet you," she grins, leaning in a quickly pecking her escort on the lips. The woman looks absolutely shocked and pulls away just a little too sharply, giving her a very confused look.

She composes herself flawlessly, and Sebastiana grins at the cameras, offering them a flirty wink. "And our... our male contender for this year's Hunger Games, Winston Thorn!" She says with a slightly shaky voice.

A boy is broadcast on the screen. She looks down and finds him immediately. He's tall and lanky, and… expressionless. The boy walks slowly toward the stage, looking up and avoiding eye contact with everyone on it.

He reaches the stage, and without being prompted, she shakes his hand and kisses him too. He's shocked, and gently eases her off. The Victors are doubling over laughing on the stage, and the escort manages to shout a farewell at the cameras before they cut black.

Instantly, Peacekeepers take them away into the Justice Building and the crowd begins to disperse. The room they shepherd her to is small but opulent, with plush rugs and fancy lighting.

Ada is the first to the door, escorted by the Peacekeepers who shut the door behind her. She runs to Sebastiana and sobs in her arms. "You can't leave! I-I love you so much, how can they take you away from m-me?" Sebastiana shuts her up with a kiss.

Ada unclasps a silver necklace from around her neck. The chain feels flimsy as she puts it around Sebastiana's neck. "So you can remember me while you're gone away in the Capitol," Ada says, sniffling.

Sebastiana rolls her eyes. _Kind of pathetic_.

Her father and Avalynn are next. Acacian Ridgewood stands silent with tears streaming down his face and collecting in his beard. He holds her tightly to his chest, and she can smell the sawdust in his flannel shirt.

He gives her a kiss on the top of her head. "You look like your mother." he says. "She was always a strong woman too." Evianna had died just three years prior, and her father had never quite recovered. "I love you, Bash." He says, his voice wavering.

"Make friends," her sister says. "Allies who can help defend you. I know you're friendly enough to make them all like you, okay?" She hugs her sister. "We can't lose another one of us," she whispers in Sebastiana's ear. "You have to come home."

The next pair to come in is Lilas and Saylie. Her twin throws herself at Sebastiana. She's sobbing, and the tears are slick against her cheek.

"B-Bash, you h-have to come home," she cries, her face twisted into an expression of misery and fear.

Sebastiana finally starts to shed some tears. They feel hot on her cheeks as she embraces the remainder of her family. "I will," she whispers. "I'll come home."

"Bash, look at me," her brother tells her. She looks up into his eyes. "You have to promise us."

"I promise," she tells them, though she isn't quite sure of the answer herself.

* * *

**Winston Thorn** (**18**), **District 7 Tribute**

He's in complete shock.

How was his name drawn? Him. He's the male tribute this year. He runs his fingers through his hair and sits down hard on the soft cushions of the couch. He's interrupted by the opening of the door.

His parents are first. His father stands off to one side, trying to scrape the tears from his face. His mother, still wearing her flour-covered apron from the bakery, makes a beeline straight for him, and crushes him into a bear hug. "Oh… oh my boy…" she's crying, and he holds her gently, wishing he could alleviate her pain.

"I love you mom," he says. His father joins them, and Winston feels safe trapped between their arms. They're broken apart by the Peacekeepers, and his mother is hysterical now, thrashing at them. The door slams shut and reopens moments later.

Tobin rushes him, jumping onto him and wrapping her arms around his neck. "Winston! I'm sorry for running out this morning… I'm sorry for being such a little shit, okay? I didn't mean any of it… I'll be better from now on, I prom-" he breaks her off and squeezes her tight.

"I don't care. It's okay, you're just expressing yourself." _I just wanted to watch out for you_. She reaches deep in her pocket and produces a small red poker chip.

"I won this from a girl at school," she says, dropping it into his palm. "Bring it back to me, please." She gives him a small smile and leaves the room before the goodbye becomes too hard to say.

She's replaced by Tobias, who wishes him luck. "You'll be okay, dude. Keep your head clear, get a weapon, and you're set. You know enough to keep you alive in whatever Arena they'll put you in. And I don't wanna work the lumberyards without you. Good luck, man."

With that, his friend is gone and replaced with his final visitor. The one he wanted to see most of all.

_If I can survive today, I'll have the rest of my life to love her_. The words beat him down as she draws nearer. Her eyes are misty and full of tears, but she's still the most beautiful girl he's ever seen. His hands find hers, and he kisses her neck. When she speaks, he can feel the vibrations travel through his lips. "I can't lose you too, Winston," she murmurs as his lips travel up her chin to meet hers.

Her lips are sweet and salty from the tears, and he cups her head with his hand, biting her bottom lip gently. Passionately. They break apart and he melts into her eyes, drinking in the way they sparkle in the dim, sophisticated lighting of the Justice Building.

"Winston... I love you," she says, her breath hot like her tears against his cheek.

"I love you too," he whispers to her, holding her close. As he closes his eyes and finds her lips once more, he makes her a promise.

He's going to come home.

* * *

More than a hundred miles away, a screen blinks into existence, the bright light beaming rays across the room draped in shadow. A man slowly sits up from the bed, and eases himself to the edge of it, careful not to disturb the sleeping figure beside him.

Her eyes are shut, and in sleep she looks younger. The black hair shot through with gray melts together into the night, and only her face is illuminated by the light.

He crosses the room and rubs the grit from his eyes. He begins to read the message on the screen.

**CLASSIFIED ENTRY**

_Under no circumstance of Panemian law, should this electronic mail be extorted for values other than the original purpose for which it was sent._

**recipient**: Head Gamemaker Vetura

**sender**: President Ammon

**subject**: RE: 29th Games Muttations

His breath catches in his chest. It's a message from the President, to the woman who rests on the bed beside him. He scans the message and is disappointed when he finds the majority of it to be censored.

**Name**: REDACTED

**Type**: Insectoid

**Description**: REDACTED

At the very bottom of the message, the President's response is typed in a neat black font.

The muttation has been approved. I'm very pleased with your work, Vivianne. Looking forward to more progress reports from you in the near future.

He clicks off the screen when he hears her stir. He climbs back into bed as quietly as he can, but it's not easy for him to sleep wondering just what monsters his Vivianne is going to send after the tributes.

* * *

**End Note****: ****Aaand there's Districts 3 and 7! As always, please review, criticism on my writing is VERY welcome, whatever ya know? Any thoughts on Bash or Winston? I do take this semi-seriously and would like to produce a quality story that you all wind up enjoying. Was the teaser too little information? What do you think it is?**

**District 3 Team:**

**\- Edward Nelson, male D3 tribute**

**\- Dayta Tahir (Edward's Mentor), 13th Victor**

**\- Brita Edison, female D3 tribute**

**\- Helix Anderson (Brita's Mentor), 9th Victor**

**\- Bellina, the Escort**

**District 7 Team:**

** \- Winston Thorn, male D7 tribute**

** \- Yarrow Lee (Winston's Mentor), 22nd Victor**

** \- Sebastiana Ridgewood, female D7 tribute**

** \- Lyra Branch (Bash's Mentor), 17th Victor**

** \- Lysandra, the Escort**

**A secondary note: SetFiresJust2WatchThemBurn has a story that's already three Reaping chapters in. It's on the website 'FictionPad', so it does take a little effort to get there, but definitely worth it. There are only 5 spots left if you are interested! :)**

**As always, thank you guys so much for taking the time out of your day to invest in my story. Very excited for the future!**

**Have a great day/night guys! :))))**


	6. Chapter 6: Reapings Part 4

**Beginning Note****: Wow. It's been a hot minute since I've updated, and I do want to apologize about that. School just started up again, and now I'm struggling to balance being a junior in high school with all the other details of my life. But as I have said before, I am determined to get this off the ground. I do appreciate the feedback! I've gotten quite a bit from you guys, and it means a lot. Every criticism helps me out, ya know? **

**I do know Reapings can feel repetitive. But they do set up a lot about the lovely tributes you have submitted, and lets you decide who to root for.**

**I'm revoking the earlier idea of two Districts per chapter. It was a little daunting, and as a result it's obviously been a while since an update.**

**I do promise to you all that I WILL become more consistent with format and updates. I'm still kinds trying to get a lot of stuff figured out, ya feel me?**

**Without further ado, District One.**

* * *

_All the stars are calling out your name_

_Ever since you went away_

_There's no sleeping you off my mind_

_I miss you all the time_

-O.A.R., Miss You All The Time

* * *

**Castiel Bomber** (**18**)

The pavement is hard and jarring beneath his feet, but he presses on, the muscles in his legs burning from the intensity of his morning run. It's early, long before the rest of the District is awake. The quiet hour before the dawn blooms into the sky allows him to collect and sort through his feelings.

He brushes sweaty strands of his curly blond hair out of his forehead and slows to a jog as he rounds the corner of the darkened street. His house lies fifty yards away; the rows of luxury houses with their perfectly manicured lawns are perfect and uniform, even this early in the morning when shadows are longest.

Perfection and uniformity, the only two things keeping District One in favor with the Capitol. He sneers, slowing to a walk as he nears his house. The street lamp casts a dusky orange glow onto the pavement. All is still in Castiel's neighborhood, all but him.

Now that the Reapings are here, he's itching with anticipation. He's been chosen for the Games, and his parents couldn't be prouder of him. Being their eldest child, he has been the only one of his siblings to train fervently for the Games. Fortuna and Esme have never seemed to care enough, finding themselves pursuing other passions of interest.

But since the incident two years ago, Castiel has trained harder than most to earn his spot in this year's annual Hunger Games.

He quietly unlocks the door and slips into the house, closing it as quietly as possible so as not to have the hinges squeak and wake anyone else. This early in the mornings, everyone else in the house is asleep in their comfortable beds. _And I do all of this instead_. He shakes his head, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

He takes a seat on the edge of the armchair and picks up the slim remote. His fingers find the buttons in the dark, and the screen bursts into light, making him wince at the intensity. Television is only used for watching the Hunger Games. In the Capitol, there is a variety of programs, but here… all they can watch is the merciless slaughter of tributes, year after year.

He uses the guide button to open the list of years. Twenty-eight listings pop into existence, but he's only interested in one. _Two years it's been since Charming volunteered_. At age sixteen, his boyfriend had entered the Games, and been murdered.

It had taken its toll on Castiel. Both of his parents believed him to have moved on from losing his boyfriend in the Games. But despite what he outwardly projects, Castiel cannot help but resent everything that happened. _He didn't have to volunteer_.

The boy who had won was the same age as Charming, but it had been the trainyards of District 6 that had a tribute come home instead. _At least it wasn't the pair from seven_. He flicks through the Games, watching his beautiful, _reckless_ boyfriend volunteer. Watching him in the chariot rides, waving and blowing kisses to the crowd, no longer just reserved for Castiel.

He watches the training scores come out - Charms got an eight - and the interviews, where his eyes lit up, and his smile was dazzling as he flaunted the golden bracelet Castiel had given him, telling the Capitol just how much he loved him.

Even their swooning over his show of affection could not save him from one of the weakest career packs the Games had seen since the Academies came into existence. Charming… his darling boy had made it to the final eight. And it was there that Castiel pauses the remote, on the face of the girl from seven. He can feel his muscles tensing up, he can feel the red heat slowly creep into his face. Just seeing her makes him angry.

She took everything from him.

He tries to desensitize himself to it all the time. _But it's futile... I'm never going to forget what happened_. He had watched as she stole his boyfriend's life.

His life, too. _It's been two years since I last saw him_, Castiel thinks, angrily trying to keep the tears at bay, his eyes stinging. He misses having him around, to brighten up the day with his easy smile. He misses his laugh, his smile, his face. This year, things would be different.

He twists the same golden bracelet around his wrist, wondering what he could have done to save the only one he had loved.

* * *

_May you sail far to the far fields of fortune_

_With diamonds and pearls at your head and your feet_

_And may you need never to banish misfortune_

_May you find kindness in all that you meet_

-Sleepsong (Secret Garden)

* * *

**Crescentia Monroe** (**18**)

"Wrong again," the voice calls from across the studio. She sighs in frustration as she performs the movement for what must be the tenth time today. At this point, the dance is etched into her mind, and she cannot see the flaws in her execution.

Perhaps Turmalin is just being a perfectionist again. It irks her to no end, the way he insists on making her repeat each dance until she gets it exactly the way he wants it to be. She glances up at the clock, incredulous that he's asked her to train even on the Reaping Day.

It had been ten years since she quit training for the Games. She had decided at a young age that she didn't have the aptitude for it, much to her mother's disapproval. Instead she had taken up the art of dance, her body growing limber and stronger with the practice.

"Finally!" Her dancing partner stands up from his chair and gives her a dramatic, slow-handed clap. Crescentia almost rolls her eyes but catches herself. "Can I go now?" She teases him. "My friends are waiting outside." Her partner nods, giving her a wide grin. "Come back tomorrow, all right? We can try and finish our piece then."

She nods absently. Dancing keeps her from getting too restless. The slow, waltzing tunes and the face-paced crescendos keep her soul alight with passion for something. And she welcomes it, despite her hobby stemming from her mother's disappointment. It keeps her in shape, and keeps her mind sharp as she learns new moves and forms.

In fact, her friends _are_ waiting for her, and have been. They flock around her, almost ecstatic. "Let's get dressed for the Reapings!" says Jolly excitably. Like most girls from the luxury District, the sixteen-year-old girl loves to get dressed up in fine cloth and jewels. The two others are carrying larger bags, and a slightly twitchy look is on Gemma's face. Though the girl is newer to their group, the eighteen-year-old always seems on edge.

"Let's get a move on, shall we?" She asks, almost irritably. Crescentia will never understand her frustration. Having torn a ligament in her shoulder - and subsequently being removed from the Academy - Gemma always seems to find fault in the way things are run. Lavender offers her a reassuring smile, and the group heads over to the Monroe house to get changed, as they live closest to the town square.

Walking through the front door, the house seems silent. Her father is likely out already, helping the Mayor with the last minute preparations. Her mother is likely helping her younger sister, Silver Hail, get dressed for the Reapings. What ever would Amadea do if the golden child of the Monroe family _didn't_ look her best?

This time, Crescentia does roll her eyes. _Better this way_, she thinks as the group sneaks upstairs into Crescentia's bedroom. Lavender is now grinning from ear to ear and she and Gemma empty the contents of their bags, the primary focus being four extravagant dressed, now folded neatly onto the bedspread.

"How long did it take you to get them this time?" Crescentia asks, stifling a giggle. The four dresses in front of them would have normally cost upwards of a fortune. _But Lavender certainly has her ways_.

Their "shopping sprees" always ended well, with adrenaline and a heavy-handed dose of freedom coursing through her veins. If successful, they'd manage to get their hands on the most luxurious of garments, and the increasingly lax Peacekeeper watch would be none the wiser. _And neither were her parents_, she thinks resentfully.

Amadea Monroe had all but given up on her daughter. Crescentia had all but given up on her, too. The girls began to change into their new dresses, posing in the tri-fold mirror. Crescentia couldn't be happier. The flowy, deep purple dress was a _rich_ color, the golden embroidery doing just enough to compliment it.

It likely took another half an hour to do up her long blonde hair, but with the golden clips and light purple flowers, the reflection she studies in the mirror is nothing short of elegant. "So who's supposed to volunteer this year?" She asked her friends as they applied finishing touches of makeup.

Gemma looks up, her face a mask of mute frustration once more. It's Lavender who responds, applying bright red lipstick to her full lips. "The boy is supposed to be Castiel Bomber, and the girl is… Nike Boticelli, I think." she says, her voice a little muffled by her hand.

_Nike. What a bitch_. She sighs. All the girl concerned herself with was weapons training, and looking brawny and tough. Of course the Academy chose her. But what's to say she doesn't die in the bloodbath like the Career boy from Four last year? It's entirely possible. Training for the Games doesn't make you any more likely to win them. Outlier Victors are living proof of that. She sighs and finishes her makeup just as the tolling of the Reaping bell announces the need to arrive at the square before the cameras get fired up.

She grabs Lavender's hand, mulling it over in her head. It's been a topic plaguing her mind for the past couple of months. _Why couldn't she win the Hunger Games? _She shuffles into her spot towards the front of the town plaza, eyes expectantly on the stage with a hundred lights and cameras all trained on the five figures that stand on it.

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen of District One, to the Reapings for the 29th Annual Hunger Games!" famed Pomponious, the escort, says with a grandiose tone. His long white beard is forked into three prongs, each ending with a heavy golden bead. His suit, a dark burgundy color, draws her eye in. She loves the rich colors of the Capitol, and Pomponius does not mark an exception. He raises his hands to silence the crowd, his deep voice beginning to read the Treaty of Treason, a document of less importance in a District so close to home. She supposes the outer Districts must _enforce_ it, to some extent or other.

She casts a look at Lavender, her friend's face a little slack-jawed at the proceedings. She doesn't want to be here. _Her parents must be furious that she isn't going to volunteer_, Crescentia thinks. She offers her friend a small smile, and the other girl returns it.

_But why should she? Why should Nike Boticelli volunteer in the first place? _The odds are most certainly not in their favor, Career or not. Crescentia finds herself wondering why they bother to train at all, when District One only has their three precious Victors in all of twenty-eight years.

Pomponius strides over to the girl's bowl, and dips his fingers, laden with rings, into the pool of papers.

It only takes her a moment of thought.

* * *

**Castiel Bomber** (**18**), **District 1 Tribute**

He's dried his eyes long before the Reapings begin. His parents have been oblivious to his sufferings for as long as he can remember, indulging themselves on the same Castiel they've always known. Bubbly, happy, confident. Perfection and uniformity, once again.

He sighs in disbelief; they continue to amazing him with their blindness. Sometimes he feels as though Fortuna is the only one who can see what he's going through. She's the one who found him again, his fists curled at his sides as the tear tracks snaked down his face. _She knows I watch it every morning_.

She'd given him a hug, the most meaningful one he's had in a while. Not the last he would have from her, but it helped to soothe his pain a little while they sat in the living room in the darkness before dawn.

Now the sun is bright and shining in the sky, but the weather is crisp enough that he feels comfortable wearing his jeans.

His parents, of course, expressed mild alarm at his wardrobe choice, but Fortuna - ever on his side - pointed out that if he's already been selected to compete, he'll be entering regardless of what he looks like. Personally, Castiel likes the goofy vibe his red bow tie and white collared shirt gives off. When paired with the muscles he's worked his ass off for, he almost looks like a Three boy on steroids.

His District will recognize him, for the sheer amount of hours he's spent practicing his sword arm in the training center. He's been selected to compete this year, sure. But all of the other tributes will misjudge him right off the bat. Why would the worst-dressed tribute in District One be someone to watch out for?

Part of him finds it amusing, the part he knows belongs in the ground with Charms. _I would have found it humorous_, he muses, looking up with dark blue at the streets from under his lashes. Everyone else is dressed for the occasion, like fucking peacocks strutting around someone's lawn. He can't imagine what the Capitol citizens must look like.

The Reaping bell sounds from somewhere in the distance, and he and his siblings leave from beside their parents - with whom Fortuna and Esme were having an idle conversation with - and walk separately to the plaza. He drops his fake smile for a moment, cheeks tires from trying to appear nonchalant for his parents benefit.

"Esmeralda, shush!" Fortuna says to his younger sister. No doubt she was chattering on about something useless or other. They've entered the plaza after being recorded by the Peacekeepers for attendance. Castiel gives Esme a stiff hug, and gives Fortuna a better one. "If all goes well, I'll see you both shortly," he says with a jovial wink as they divide once more, them to the girls and him to the boys.

The Reapings have begun, and a silence seems to eat away at the crowd, waiting in anticipation for Pomponius to get them underway. District One's victors, Cyril, Samite, and the Victor of the First Quarter Quell, Aurelia Dior, sit in the chairs to the right of the mayor, all watching the crowd with intensity.

They, of course, are always unaware of who the Academy is going to choose for them to mentor. Despite the significant advantage Career tributes already have, the Academy still plays by the rules. He listens with mild boredom as the escort skims over the Treaty of Treason and heads to the girl's bowl. He already knows who he's supposed to partner up with this year. They've been training together at the Academy for a couple of months; the trainers made it a goal to prepare them to work better as a unit in case District 4 tried to pull something slimy again this year.

He didn't like Nike, but she's just a means to an end. That's why it surprises him when two voices ring out after Pomponius is done reading the slip of paper. What surprises him even more is that it's not Nike who makes it to the stage first.

Instead, a blonde girl stands on the stage, her smile quickly vanishing. His lips quirk into a small smile. Despite losing the predictability of Nike Boticelli, the girl standing on the stage looks utterly psyched out by her decision. The brawnier volunteer looks outraged, and splutters angrily as Peacekeepers step in her way. "It's protocol, ma'am," he can hear them say. It's the only sound in the square.

Whoever this girl is, she was met by complete silence. Come to think of it, he's never seen her around the Academy. Even some of the trainers look a little confused. The escort smooths his beard, and to his credit, manages to easily resume the Reapings lest they forget that the cameras are broadcasting everything directly to the Capitol citizens.

He clears his throat. "The male tribute for District One is Luc-" he begins to read, his gaze sweeping the mass of assembled kids. Castiel wastes no time in announcing himself.

"I volunteer as tribute!" He cries out. This time, he is met with applause when he steps into the aisle. He exaggeratedly saunters up the steps, past the wall of white soldiers, and onto the stage, where he outstretches his hand to the old man.

He flashes the cameras an infectious smile, and pretends to recoil a little. "You should really use more lotion," he sardonically stage whispers to the man. This incites a couple bouts of laughter once the applause has subsided, and though the escort exaggerates his hurt feelings, Castiel smirks a little when he notices the man's eyes when he looks at the palms of his hands.

"Our tributes for the 29th Annual Hunger Games: Castiel Bomber and Crescentia Shine Monroe!" Castiel sees the girl flinch a little when her name is said, and winks at her as he shakes her hand firmly, mustering up a warm and inviting smile to give her. A round of applause is rallied from the disgruntled crowd beyond, and the girl seems to perk up a little bit.

"We'll be alright, you and me," he tells Crescentia before they're separated. Surprisingly, he sees a little gratitude on her face before the door is slammed shut behind him and he's alone in the Justice Building room.

He has just a few heartbeats to process all of what just happened before his family comes into the room. His father claps a hand on his back, his eyes beaming. "I'm proud of you son," he says happily, a mustached smile reaching his eyes for once. His mother keeps exclaiming how excited she is to see her gorgeous son in the Hunger Games.

"I know you'll come home a Victor," she tells him with a kiss on the forehead. He knows she means it, somewhere inside.

"Love you mom," he says with a grin that feels too forced as his parents stop fawning over him to allow his sisters to say goodbye.

"It's gonna be so cool to have a Victor for a brother!" Esme exclaims. "The Victor's Village is gonna be sooo awesome! We can live next to Aurelia Dior!" She can barely contain her excitement, and Castiel feels the irritation creep a little into his skin, but he gives her a nod and a hug anyway.

Fortuna is last, and he lets himself be real once she's embraced in his muscled arms. "I love you sis," he tells her, whispering into her identical blonde hair. "Whether I come back or not, I want you to know I really appreciate you, Fortuna. From the bottom of my heart." He wipes her tears off her face with his thumb and blinks hard, keeping his own at bay.

It's almost a relief when the Peacekeepers come and take them away.

His parents think he's moved on, that he's forgotten Charms. But his only motive to enter the Games isn't to come back and win them a house in the Victor's Village, he reflects as he fiddles with his boyfriend's golden bracelet. _My only reminder of him_.

It's for vengeance.

* * *

**Crescentia Monroe** (**18**), **District 1 Tribute**

Just like that, she's in the Games. The realization hits when she shakes the boy's hand, when no one claps for her as she takes Nike's place onstage. Her friends looked absolutely bewildered, and the entire District was a little shocked.

So naturally she felt a little tricked when the boy, Castiel, seemed so warm to her on stage. She forgets this as the euphoria sets in. She's going into the Games, not Silver Hail. She'll show her mother that it doesn't require a Career background to win the Games, or at least go deep into them.

But her parents reaction is very different from what she might have imagined. Her father, normally so absent, is screaming in her face. "CRESCENTIA SHINE MONROE, I DON'T UNDERSTAND - " she cringes at the use of her middle name, so boring and basic, he catches himself. His veiny hands shake in unforseen rage. "I don't understand why you're throwing everything you have away, Crescentia.

Her mother _tsks_ with a look of disbelief worn plainly on her face for all to see. Her sister offers no solace either, with her eyebrows raised in concern and her hand stifling a raucous laugh.

Crescentia can feel the anger building in her chest. "I'm not throwing anything away," she says indignantly. "I'm trying to prove a point to you two."

"And what?" Her mother screeches. "Let the other Careers walk over you and Castiel because you aren't trained to work with him? Did you even watch the Hunger Games last year?" She asks.

Crescentia sighs. Of course she did. The same story has kept District One burning with anger all year. But in the end, Crescentia doesn't blame Talisa Umiko for what she did. She _won_. "Look, Mom, Dad… it'll be fine. Two and Four don't know that I'm not a trained career, and they have no reason to doubt that I'm not."

Her mother pinches the bridge of her nose. Ever since she wasn't selected for her Hunger Games, she's been overzealous about the entire concept ever since. This time, her sister steps in for her. "It's not a bad idea, Mom. If she plays her cards right, they might not be any wiser for it."

Crescentia looks at her sister with an expression of shocked gratitude. "Thanks…" she mutters. Her mother opens her mouth as if to say something, then begrudgingly shuts it. She gives her daughter a less stiff hug than before, and her father and sister follow suit, admitting they believe in her.

She gives them one last big smile before they're ushered out. She collapses onto the couch, rubbing her temples. She runs her hands along the silky purple fabric of the dress and focuses on her breathing for a moment, taking a moment to make her face look still and placid before she stands up.

Now, she will need to wear a mask of mysteriousness and let the other Careers try to decipher who she really is. Her only fear is that the boy in the bowtie will figure it out before they do.

Let the fun and games begin.

* * *

**End Note**: **Wow. Again, an apology is in order. Anyone who wants a refund, it'll cost ya only 15 sponsor points lmfaooo anyway, a mass of format changes have been getting smoothed out, I'm getting my sh*t together to some degree, and any questions you may have about the upcoming chapters or some included information will be posted shortly on my bio. :))**

**District 1 Team: **

**-Castiel Bomber, male D1 tribute**

**-Aurelia Dior (Castiel's Mentor), 25th Victor**

**-Crescentia Monroe, female D1 tribute**

**-Cyril Topaza (Crescentia's Mentor), 3rd Victor**

**-Pomponius, the Escort**

**Hope I did them justice. Up next is District Nine. I do have half of it done already, I just thought it'd help my update consistency if I split it so I'd be a step ahead.**

**Also! One last notice. The amazing Paradigm of Writing has begun a follow-up to Sheep Led to Slaughter! If you haven't read it, it's definitely something I would check out. The quality of his writing (hence the name) is absolutely stunning and I know I submitted a tribute or two as fast as I could. I know he needs some more good tributes, so take a little time and submit to Bombs and Bullets! I know it'd mean the world to him :))**

**Have a nice day/night, buds!**


	7. Chapter 7: Reapings Part 5

_Feeling like a hero, but I can't fly_

_No, you never crash if you don't try_

_Took it to the edge, now I know why_

_Never gonna live if you're too scared to die_

-Goo Goo Dolls, So Alive

* * *

**Filip** '**Padds**' **Padderson** (**17**)

With a grimace on his face, he hands the older boy his paper, with its pencil serpents dancing across the page in a hurried scrawl. The boy squints at his messy handwriting and sighs. To Padds, the look of resignation in his tutor's face is all he needs to see before he abruptly stands, the chair screeching on the old linoleum floor.

"That's it," he groans. "I'm not going to sit here and listen to you lecture me about how much of a dumbass I am _again_." He spits the last word, and every bone in his body is alive, but his brain feels heavy and slow. The other boy opens his mouth as if to speak, his nostrils flaring, but Padds is long gone.

He pushes open the double doors and relaxes his stiffened shoulders as the warmth of the sun greets him. Others are lounging outside, soaking up the rays of sun on their day off from school and field alike. But not Padds. He blames his parents; being some of the smartest denizens of District Nine has allowed them to rise from the poverty of their District. _But it doesn't mean my life is any easier_, he grimaces.

He fidgets a little as he walks down the paved trail home. Large hills and swathes of grain keep the population of their District widespread and disconnected, in a way. Though the cramped center of town is abuzz preparing for this year's Reapings, the fields beyond are silent as the grave, the tall stalks of grain quivering beneath the thin breeze.

He rolls his neck and hoists his book-bag over his suntanned skin. It's almost impossible to be pale when the sun reigns overhead for miles in every direction. He often looks to the trees. Scaeron has often talked about breaching the outskirts of town - bordered by an electric fence - and relaxing in the shade for once, to escape the heat.

_His idea isn't a bad one_, Padds admits as he gazes wistfully at the green smudge of trees in the distance. His friend often has ideas that would get the attention of the Peacekeepers and their batons, but only if they ever came to fruition.

The woods were forbidden. And so was being academically challenged, he thinks bitterly. _Reeva and Wheaton Padderson wouldn't have a dumbass for a son, now would they?_ Padds sighs and halfheartedly waves at a neighbor smoothing her young daughter's frock. His house appears on top of the hill, a house that seems so large in comparison to some of the homes in the shanty towns down by the dried-up river. But he imagines it to be modest in comparison to what those in the Career Districts must have. Or the Capitol, for heaven's sake.

He approaches the arched doorway and aggressively scuffs his boots on the welcome mat, leaving streaks of mud on the bristly square. He quickly unlaces them and enters the house. His mother waits for him in the kitchen, a couple of breakfast sausages sizzling in the pan. "How was tutoring, Filip? You're home awfully early," she says, an accusatory tone creeping into her voice. He cringes at the use of his full name, hating the way it sounds in his ear.

He scratches the back of his neck. "Lonan says I'm improving. The tutor agrees with him. I'm telling you, mom, my grades will pick up." He rolls his eyes once her back is turned, and slouches in the chair as she prepares a plate of breakfast for him. He bounces his leg up and down until she places a plate before him, and two more for his siblings, who thunder down the stairs with happy expressions on their faces.

Since his parents work to help develop hardier strains of grain, the Paddersons have never needed to opt for tesserae, save the six months his parents were laid off due to technical errors in the systems. But though their enthusiasm carries over to Challah and Kieran, their eldest son doesn't seem to have the same skillset.

By now, his parents attention is divided solely among the twins, grooming them to look presentable during the Reapings today. Kieran's curly hair, a staple among them, is combed into place, and whatever _fascinating_ new revelations Challah is having are being discussed by his parents. He considers asking them a question, but instead gets up and rinses his dishes in the sink. Why should they care, anyway?

Once upstairs, he pulls on a light gray shirt, pushing the sleeves up to his elbows as he buttons it over his tan skin. He takes a moment to smooth his hair, a pointless action really, and decides that he looks good enough to go to the Reapings.

He takes the steps down two at a time, and throws a goodbye at his parents. Silence is his answer, and he shakes his head as he pushes open the door and steps back into the unending embrace of the sun.

Time to get this over with.

* * *

_The sharp knife of a short life,_

_Well I've had just enough time_

_If I die young bury me in satin._

_Lay me down on a bed of roses_

-The Band Perry, If I Die Young

* * *

**Arley Harva** (**12**)

Her sister's hands deftly weave the ribbons through her hair. The bed is hard under her bottom, but she tries to ignore the squalor of the room and focus on her reflection in the cracked mirror.

"Sissa," she asks, looking up at her sister. The older girl stops what she is doing and meets Arley's eyes. "Who will go into the Games this year?" The question makes her sister sigh. The last time a victor emerged from District 9 was six years ago. And before that, it was seventeen years that old Granger Hammond watched, alone, as his tributes were slaughtered.

Last year, only one made it past the bloodbath, just to be shot through the skull by the District 1 archer boy. They had been thirteen years old. "I don't know, Arley," her sister tells her, resuming her task in braiding what short brown hair Arley still has. "Probably no one you know, alright?"

Lice and other small bugs are plentiful in the fields, and helping her father harvest grains to be shipped off to the Capitol has certainly earned her a share of them.

The Capitol is a foreign concept to her. It sounds strange on her tongue, too, when she says it. The only thing she knows about them is that they owe them bountiful harvests to compensate for some war waged long ago. That, and the white-clad soldiers who prowl their streets, looking to apprehend anyone who steps out of line. A sudden worry lodges into her, as she remembers her sister coming home with what they call tesserae. "You won't be Reaped, right?" Her sister shakes her head. "Promise?"

"No, Arley. I won't. Promise." Her sister offers her a weak smile that Arley doesn't pick up on. Her sister finishes making her hair look presentable. She then helps Arley tug on a plain brown dress which does nothing to hide her stick-thin arms.

She doesn't eat enough. The irony of living in a District that solely produces food is that the majority of the denizens are starving or malnourished. Her sister notices too. "Stop giving your portions to Oat. He has enough food as it is. In fact, he's getting a little chubby," she says, poking the eight year old's belly. He looks up at the pair of them from where he's using a bright yellow pencil to draw on the floor.

He giggles, and she gives him a smile. "You know I'd volunteer for you right?" Arley turns her big blue eyes on her sister, who freezes up with tension.

"_NO_!" She shouts, startling Oat and Arley. "You _can't_ do that, Arley! You're far too young, and you know…" she trails off, catching herself. Arley doesn't fully understand the concept of the Hunger Games, and her sister doesn't want to be the one to break the news.

"But Sissa-" Arya cuts her off.

"No, Arley." Arya finishes getting her ready, and then tells Oat to stand up and join them in the dining room with its sagging ceiling. Her parents are there, and take Oat from her big sister.

"It's a big day for you, Arley," her mother tells her. "But it'll be okay, it's no big deal. You'll be home before you know it! You have the _whole_ day off," she beams at her daughters. Their father gives them a tight hug as the Reaping bells sound.

Arya takes her hand and gently steers her out of their house. "Come on," she says, her voice taking an edge of worriedness to it as they step out the threshold.

The streets are packed the closer they get to where the Reapings are held. Every year, a large swath of grain is harvested early so that they can erect a stage in the center. Those not Reaping eligible stand behind a row of Peacekeepers, the long golden stalks of wheat reaching their knees.

Arya kisses her forehead, leaving to join the other girls her age. She's replaced by Arley's best friend, Copper Sunn, a girl she met in primary school.

"Hiya, Arley," she whispers cheerily. The Reapings hold little weight to the pair of them; they're still wrapped up in dreams and distant fantasy lands. This is most prominent in the copper crown that's given her friend her nickname. Arley gives her the biggest grin.

"Hiya, Copper," she replies. "We get the whole day off! Can we go hang out later? I think my parents will be okay with it, since I don't have to work."

Her friend nods, about to reply when the voice of the escort blares out at the crowds. He's unnaturally handsome, with pale skin and a clearly altered smile. His hair is long and braided, dyed golden to look like grain, no doubt. He looks ridiculous.

But he's pragmatic, wasting no time after he and the mayor exchange pleasantries. He rummages around the big glass ball for a slip of paper, and closes his fingers around it, pulling it out of the ball. He almost trips over his absurd purple toga on the way back to the microphone, causing a few people in the boys section to snicker under their breath.

"Our female tribute for District 9 is… Arya Harva!" With those nine words, Arley can feel her heart sink to her feet. _She lied to me. It's supposed to be someone I don't know!_ She can feel Copper squeezing her hand firmly. _She promised!_ Arley huffs as she watches her sister walk into the aisle. The escort has a grin plastered on his ugly pale face.

_Sissa's the one who provides for us. She is strong, and helps mom and dad get food and money and all the nice things in the world. She's brave, she's bold… she's my Sissa. I can't let her go up there._

She can feel Copper squeezing tighter as she breaks away, not fully knowing what she is launching herself into. She pushes through the taller kids around her and bursts out into the aisle behind her sister.

"I volunteer as tribute!" She cries, balking at her sister's look of pure horror.

* * *

**Filip** '**Padds**' **Padderson** (**17**), **District 9 Tribute**

The sun is high in the sky, and he watches as the Escort climbs the stage and shakes hands with District 9's Victors. In all twenty-eight years, they've only had the two. _Twenty-eight years of senseless anguish_, he thinks as he picks at his nails to distract himself from the proceedings., _With another one beginning today_.

Scaeron and Lonan stand nearby, but Varia is over in the girl's section. "Glad she can't poke fun at my height for the next half an hour," he jokes to them. Scaeron laughs and folds his arms as the camera crews start to fiddle with their technology. Padds catches Lonan looking up from whatever he's looking at and gives him a flirty wink. A blush creeps across the boy's face, and he looks back down at his dog-eared book, his ears still vibrantly red.

Padds chuckles and turns his attention back to the ridiculous Capitolite, nearly tripping over his toga as the cameras begin rolling. Scaeron and Padds suppress laughter as he rights himself and takes to the girl's Reaping Ball. "Our female tribute for District 9 is…" he announces, pausing for dramatic effect. "Arya Harva!" Silence is king of the courtyard. A heartbeat passes, then two. And then, shockingly, the grain fields have produced a volunteer.

A scrawny looking girl steps into the aisle of children, volunteering herself. She looks so young, and he can see Lonan's face twist like he's tasted something sour. It's never a good thing to have a twelve-year-old represent your District. It's depressing to have one shipped off to the Capitol. But there is an air of uncertainty when the little girl volunteers for the bigger girl, whose face is blank horror. She screams at the little girl with the ribbons in her hair, and cries.

She's dragged away from her sister by the Peacekeepers, and the Escort with his too-pale face amongst thousands of tanned ones tries to encourage the volunteer to come join him. She obliges, shakily ascending the stage and staring mutely at the crowd. Arley Harva, she says her name is. _It's looking to be another brutal year for Nine_.

The Escort's face is a mixture of excitement from having a volunteer, and pity for having one so young. But he flounces over to the boy's Reaping Ball, a constipated look on his face. He reads the next name quickly and efficiently. The two words "Filip Padderson" have his ears ringing.

Scaeron begins to curse loudly, and it's only after the man on the stage reads his name a second time that it registers with him that he has been Reaped. Panic begins to set into him, and his legs feel like lead as he takes slow steps from out of the crowd. He walks towards the man's brilliant smile, and takes the steps one at a time to join the tight-lipped girl, trying to muster a nonchalant expression for his face. _They're all watching_, he remembers, shaking the man's hand with an equally loud grin.

"Great to meet you, Filip," he says with another obnoxious grin.

"I go by 'Padds' actually," the boy clarifies, giving the man a playfully stern look. The escort apologizes to him and restates his name with an upbeat voice.

"Your tributes for the 29th Annual Hunger Games: Padds Padderson and Arley Harva! Can I get a round of applause?" He asks the crowd ringing the field. They clap slowly, but they clap so that the Capitol does not bring retribution to their doorstep.

They do not clap for joy. He knows immediately that it's a slaughterhouse he is being sent to, and gulps nervously as white-clad men march he and the girl into the Justice Building. He breathes in the impossibly chilly air of the room,

He barely has time to admire the ornate stonework of the fireplace before his family files into the room. His parents are somehow silent, as if the sending of their son to his death has no effect on them. He can feel frustration building up in his chest as Challah gives him a flimsy hug. "I'll miss you," she says stiffly.

Kieran looks up at him and Padds crushes him into a hug. His brother is the only one who even bothers to acknowledge him on a regular basis, and he can feel the fourteen-year-old's tears on his shirt. The boy mumbles something nearly unintelligible, but Padds knows exactly what he's saying. _Promise to come home_. As he gives his parents parting goodbyes, he wonders just how well he'll be able to keep that promise for Kieran.

Next enter his friends, pent-up with energy from being forced to wait outside. But they don't have much to say either. Lonan is crying, and gives Padds a fierce hug, looking his friend in the eyes with a silent plea for him to be okay. Varia gives him her bracelet. "It won't magically make you taller," she says wryly. "But wear it to remember us. You're bringing it back, that cost me actual money," she gives him a grin and a kiss on the cheek. He slips it on his wrist and gives Scaeron a hug too. His friend, normally exuberant, is at a loss for words. It hits him then the reality of the Games, and that though his parents will resume without him, his friends may never.

_It's ripping me away from my life_. He ends the embrace with Scaeron Overhill as the Peacekeepers return to the room and insist that their time is up. "I'll make that fucking Escort cry before we get to the Capitol," he tells his friends, tense laughter building inside the room. It's cut in half by the door and dies by his feet.

It's time to finally get the show on the road.

* * *

**Arley Harva** (**12**), **District 9 Tribute**

She's itching to leave the somber crowd outside. _They made me feel awkward_, she frowns. It's a relief when the escort raises her hand and the boy's hand, proclaiming them as this year's tributes. The crowd does not change, but her surroundings finally do, and she finds herself ensconced in the fanciest room she's ever been in her whole life.

It's a bit of a shock to her, seeing the inside of the Justice Building. These rooms are only used once a year, when the trains come and take the tributes to the Capitol, where everything is supposedly gorgeous and perfect and vibrant and beautiful… but how could it be any nicer than this?

She runs her fingers along the embroidery of the soft couch, and stares at the _electric_ lighting, amazed by the consistent glow of the bulb behind the glass. She's startled by the opening of the door, and Copper is the first one to enter the room.

Arley sniffles, and her eyes become wet as she goes to greet her friend. Copper helps her stand up, and pulls her into a tight hug. When she's dried the tears out of her eyes and released her friend, she feels a weight atop her head. The copper crown rests atop her short brown hair, nestled in the mess of ribbons.

Copper gives her a look over and grins. Always, Copper would play the queen with her beautiful crown. Arley was relegated to play as her servant, following her commands and fetching her whatever she desired. I always wanted to be the queen, yet the crown remained on her head, having given her the nickname 'Copper.' And now it was resting on Arley's head. "I want you to have it," her friend says sadly, raising Arley's hand to her lips.

"My queen," she says, giving Arley a hug. Their roles have been reversed, and now a little confidence grows in Arley's heart.

_I'm the queen now_, she thinks with a smile. "I love you, Copper," she says to her friend, giving her one last hug before time's up and she was escorted out of the room.

Next is her mother, her father, and Oat, still clinging to her father's hand. They pass in one huge blur, all crying and hugging her, professing how they love her and want her to come back home to them.

Then they usher in her sister; though she was the first one to reach the base of the stage after the cameras were cut, they made her wait the longest. She rushes into the room, antsy from having to wait to see her younger sibling. "Arley!" She exclaims, throwing herself at the smaller girl. Her face is already hot with tears, her breath hot against my face. "Why… why would you v-volunteer?" she splutters. "I-I told you not to. You… you might _die_, Arley!"

Arley nods slowly. "It's okay. It won't be you," she says. "Everyone needs you, and you know it!" She says fiercely, blinking hard to not cry.

"B-but, you k-" Arya starts to talk, her eyes wet with tears. Her hands feel shaky against Arley's back.

She rests her chin on her big sister's shoulder. "Be brave for me, okay Sissa? You know I love you." Then the Peacekeepers take her sister away, crying and kicking, and then the tears finally come.

* * *

**End Note: No beginning note on this one. I feel like that's a little unnecessary, at this point. I have uploaded, and it's only been a little over a week! Not my best chapter, it didn't turn out quite as well as I had planned. Starting to wonder when I'll stop saying that, to anyone who bothers to read this. Maybe I can finally begin a routine, now that we are getting to more exciting prospects. Let me know your thoughts on Padds and Arley!**

**With that being said, here's our team. Again, these are mainly being added for reference, I won't be using all the mentors and escorts as full characters anyway.**

**District 9 Team:**

**\- Filip Padderson, male D9 tribute**

**\- Autumn Casper (Padds' Mentor), 23rd Victor**

**\- Arley Harva, female D9 tribute**

**\- Granger Hammond (Arley's Mentor), 6th Victor**

**\- Festus, the Escort**

**You'll get to see what I mean next chapter. I've now begun the train rides, so the Reapings are officially finished! I have 12 more tributes to introduce before we can get to the Capitol, which I already have some parts written for, but so far I've been very happy with the cast I've been given. We'll get to see District 8 in the next chapter. :)**

**Have a great day/night you guys! :))**


	8. Chapter 8: Train Rides Part 1

**Beginning Note****: Necessary this time, I know. But unless it's relevant, I'm going to *try* and stop wasting your time with these. But! This is the FIRST chapter of the train rides. I know my update speed is super slow and for that I apologize. But I hope these chapters somehow make up for it. :))**

* * *

**DISTRICT EIGHT**

* * *

_Tomorrow is another day_

_And you won't have to hide away_

_This world is not made for you_

_They're trying to catch you_

-Woodkid, Run Boy Run

* * *

**Halley Verron** (**12**), **District 8 Tribute**

No one came to visit her. It always hits her when she least expects it, the loneliness. She stares out the frosted windows of the train carriage, watching droplets of rain slide down the thick panes of glass. For once, she is sheltered from the elements. _The streets will make you, or they will break you_, she remembers the boy telling her on the night of the fire, when she had stumbled away, away from the madness and the smoke. When she had slumped against a wall and rested her chin between her knees. _It looks like tonight, they've broken you_, he said as he had picked her pockets clean.

All it took was a single night to break young Halley Verron's spirit. A single can of peas, left to cook for too long on the single-burner stove. She buries her head in her hands. _Would anyone have visited me anyway?_

She ponders this for a moment. Certainly not Old Man Clyde, with the dementia that ate at his mind. It saddens her that her friend might die alone in the homeless shelter, with no one to truly care for him as he crossed the threshold into death's warm embrace.

_Miss Lylanis wouldn't have visited me either_. And the truth is, Halley isn't sure if she would have wanted her to. She doesn't quite know what an Avox is, but when Miss Lylanis told her this morning that she could be going on a trip to the Capitol to be one, Halley knew that it wouldn't be anything good.

Nothing to do with the Capitol ever is.

She crosses her arms, rubbing her hands along them. The blue-and-cream paisley dress she wears is a size too large, and does nothing to help with the chilliness of the train, a stark difference from the mild temperatures of District 8. Even then, she's used to curling up when it gets cold outside, and waiting out the worst of the frosty mornings. She relaxes her arms and stands up from the soft mattress of the bed.

The room is massive, much larger than anything Miss Lylanis kept at the homeless shelter, with a queen-sized bed and a wardrobe, mirror, and futon all included. Lights with gaudy lampshades sit on dual nightstands, and a crystalline light fixture hangs from the ceiling, swaying with the movement of the train.

Halley looks in that mirror, the first time she's done so since this morning. She realizes how tired she looks. It's the best she's ever looked, with her hair combed neatly into its usual ponytail, but her face is clean and the dress is… beautiful.

She does a small twirl in the center of the room and immediately feels foolish. She sits back on the edge of the bed with a small sigh, and stares back out at the windows, and the greenish blur speeding past, visible through the tracks that the droplets of rain have made.

Rain that started less than an hour after the Reapings, a fitting mood for the somber occasion. She had barely fallen asleep on the couch in the Justice Building before they whisked her away onto the train, too. _It all happened so fast_, she thinks. _In less than a day, we'll be in the Capitol_.

She remembers Old Man Clyde talking about the trains once. They're fast enough to take you anywhere, except only the fancy Capitolites and their soldiers get to use them. She and the boy, whose name she cannot remember, had said no words to each other nor the escort as they had boarded the train. Halley had found his bright lime green hair and matching suit to be rather annoying. The bright, iridescent colors hurt her eyes.

She's startled from her reverie by a gentle knocking on the door. Halley turns her eyes quickly to it, breathing sharply. She doesn't want to talk to any of them. _None of them matter anyway_, she groans. _I don't want to listen to their lies_.

But the woman who comes to the door is not a liar. "Come on, Halley. You've been in your room for an hour," her friendly voice says from between the small crack in the door. "There's a lot of food out here, and you shouldn't miss a meal before the Games. Trust me, I came back and looked a lot skinnier than when I started," says District 8's sole Victor.

She relents on account of the food, and unbolts the chain that keeps the door shut. Twyla Bobbin did come back, she's the only one who's ever came back to District 8. Maybe it's only right to listen to her advice.

The dining room carriage of the train is, true to her mentor's word, stacked with a display of food. The escort sits across from the boy tribute, his hair not even moving as he animatedly gestures towards the food. The boy sits with his arms crossed and a grim look on his face. "Twyla told us we had to wait for you before we could eat," he says with a scowl.

_This should be interesting_, Halley sighs as she stiffly takes a seat at the table. "Then let's eat," she says.

* * *

_On the nights you feel outnumbered_

_To all the stars that light the road_

_Don't ever leave that girl so cold_

_Never let me down, just lead me home_

-Dermot Kennedy, Outnumbered

* * *

**Darnius Paisley** (**16**), **District 8 Tribute**

The cutlery feels strange in his hands as he takes a ladle and pours some of some kind of thick seafood soup into his bowl. He sniffs it and frowns. _It's not often we had seafood at home_, he recalls, pursing his lips and trying to take a sip. A little drizzle of soup falls onto his white t-shirt, and he slams the fork onto the table, startling the Escort. He places his hands on the sides of the bowl, and ignores the heat on his fingers as he puts his mouth on the side of the bowl and drinks.

"That's disgusting," says the Escort with his overly posh voice. He clearly hasn't forgotten about how Darnius acted when he called out his name.

"I don't care what you think." Darnius then makes it a point to wipe his mouth on the corner of the expensive-looking tablecloth. _Why is there a tablecloth at all_, he wonders. At home, he would have scrubbed the stains out of the hard wooden table. _Trying to eradicate the hard smell of alcohol_.

The one place he could never seem to get rid of the smell was in his father's mouth. Alcohol, which was cheaper than medicine, was what kept his father distracted. But it was the alcohol that made him forget, and the alcohol that made him distant.

But Rayon Paisley had never forgotten his wife, no. It was all he lamented about, in a drunken stupor. How he had found her on the streets after she was punished, whipped to death by the soldier bastards for being unable to work from pregnancy.

How it was his son's fault his beautiful Lycra had died.

The little girl across from him giggles into her hand at the Escort's shocked reaction, a manicured hand placed dramatically over his mouth. "Unbelievable manners, young man," he says, blinking in shock. "How do you expect to win sponsors when you act like such a _heathen_?"

Heathen. It wasn't a word Darnius is familiar with, but he supposes that to the Capitol, anyone who falls short of the luxurious District 1 must be complete _savages_. Not that any of the broken-backed factory workers of District 8 believed themselves to be heathens.

She had thought him a heathen at first, when he had brought them the poetry books. In a last ditch effort to save himself from applying for tesserae, he had taken things across the District and found the bookstore. The Peacekeeper's wife had been out, and his daughter gave him a look of disgust. But once he had shown the girl the book, she grew excited and the two fell into a comfortable rhythm. He would read her the book of poems, and she would give him her time.

Arya Winchester… he missed everything about his eventual girlfriend, her fiery red hair and easy confidence. Her lips. _God, I miss those lips_. Stolen kisses and euphoric highs on the rooftops, up above the busy smoky streets because her father could never know that she had feelings for a nobody.

He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, wishing he could stand and exit the train, and return back to her and Weaver, back to the _real_ home that he made in the arms of his friends. When he opens them, the dream dissipates and he's left in the gut-wrenching reality that he is hurtling towards his inevitable death.

His mentor grins. "Calm down, Agustus. It's not the end of the world if they want to eat with their hands." To further prove her point, she picks up a piece of chicken - glazed with some kind of messy-looking amber sauce - and takes a bite of it. "Speaking of sponsors," she continues after swallowing her chicken, "you _are_ going to want them. No one knows what you're to be thrown into except the Gamemakers, and you may not necessarily be able to survive on your own."

The girl seems to sort of scoff at the idea, and he raises an eyebrow at her as she picks at her plate. Neither makes the move to speak to the other, however. He knows that she's an enemy, plain and simple, and for a split second he realizes he's grateful she's so young. She'll likely die in the bloodbath, and he won't have to concern himself with how he would face her in the arena.

"Who is going to want to sponsor us?" He asks Twyla calmly. At her expression, he huffs, running his hands through his short brown hair, messing up all the hard work it took him to comb it into place this morning. "I'm sorry, but if you _haven't_ noticed, District 8's chances this year probably look pretty _fucking_ slim."

She arches a bushy eyebrow. "Why do you think I'm the only survivor in twenty-eight years, Mr. Paisley?" She folds her hands in front of her. "I can tell the pair of you have real grit. You are far from prepared, unlike the Career Pack. But the majority of these tributes are just as unprepared as you are."

"My advice? Don't waste a second in the Capitol, in the training center. Learn anything you can that will help you survive, because I know both of you can make the long haul with the right kind of guidance." She gives Agustus a warm grin at this. _She's right_. For the past few years, District 8 has survived the initial carnage. _Some have even made it into the final ten_.

He nods in agreement with the middle-aged woman. "Thanks for the advice," he grins. She won the 15th Hunger Games knowing nothing but what she learnt from the Training Center, but with three kills to her name, she must've learnt something useful.

Darnius continues to eat, entirely neglecting the utensils, though the little girl continues to make a civil attempt at the food. She stops abruptly, and he looks over to her, where four empty plates of food are stacked.

"Something doesn't... feel right…" she groans, holding her sides. She stands up, throwing the chair back onto the carpet. She runs off through the train, and Agustus looks appalled at her exit.

"Running off in the _middle_ of luncheon!" he mutters under his breath, ignoring an eye roll from Twyla.

Darnius stands up too, tucking his napkin under his plate. He is conscious of the drying stain on his shirt, but he starts off and follows the girl through the carriage. _Just because she's an enemy doesn't mean I can't make sure she's okay_, he tells himself.

He finds her hunched over a couch, using the back of her arm to wipe strands of vomit from her mouth. He politely averts his eyes from the dripping mess on the couch. _Clearly she didn't find a bathroom in time_.

"Are you okay…?" He begins to ask, realizing he does not remember her name from earlier.

The girl slowly nods her head. "I just… I ate too much," she says sheepishly, looking up at him with bright emerald eyes. He's a little surprised to see how weathered they look, as if the girl has seen too much rain and not enough sun. "All of the food just looks so delicious, but I'm not used to how _heavy_ it is!"

Darnius nods, chuckling a little. Vomit doesn't faze him. He has plenty of experience cleaning up his father's, so he offers to help her clean it up. "It's okay to be nervous," he tells his District partner.

She turns her mistrustful eyes upon him. "I know," she says sharply. Her posture then softens. "But… I dunno. Thanks for coming to check on me," she whispers to him. "I'm surprised you would care enough."

He finds himself nodding. Maybe it's the Weaver in him, but he finds himself helping her to her feet, much like his friend had all those years back in the schoolyard. "My name's Darnius," he tells her, a rare smile making a fleeting appearance on his face.

And she offers him a tentative smile in return. "Halley," she tells him as she hastily tries to straighten her dress. The pair returns to the dining carriage, where Twyla is twirling a long slender remote between her fingers.

"You two ready to watch the Reapings?" She asks them with a motherly smile on her face.

Halley nods, and he follows suit, the two sitting together and staring up at the synthetic glass pane mounted on the wall. As she clicks it on and the anthem of Panem plays in the room, his mind wanders to what's waiting for him a thousand miles away in the Capitol. What's waiting for him as they speed along the overgrown railway, the rain drumming on the windows outside.

It's hard for him to admit just how afraid he is.

* * *

**Halley Verron** (**12**), **District 8 Tribute**

The screen blinks to life. Unlike the shoddy, stagnant pixels of the television Miss Lylanis was required to have, the screen is smooth and looks like glass. The color is flawless, and she can see the images flitting across them as if they were just outside the train windows in front of her.

The normal color has returned to her cheeks, the flushed redness of embarrassment quickly diffused. She finds herself oddly thankful for the humane moment shared between her and her stand-offish District partner. Nevertheless, puking all over a fancy sofa isn't the impression she was hoping to give anyone. Thankful she's not been on camera, she shifts in the chair, getting comfortable in the plush white cushions. _A bad decision for a dining room_, she decides. _Look what happened to Darnius' shirt_. Why does everything have to be white? She wonders if it is to offset the brilliant colors she hears the Capitolites wear, and judging by Agustus' lime green tuxedo she might be right.

A pang of loneliness hits her in the stomach. She wishes she could ask Old Man Clyde about it. Surely he would be able to explain it; he had an answer for everything when the dementia wasn't controlling his memories. _I wonder if he will remember me now that I'm gone._ She wishes he could see the opulence of the train carriage too. The years hadn't done him any favors, but she knows he'd love the extravagance just as much as she does.

Part of her misses the smoke and hassle of the factory-dominated landscape of District 8, but the breath of fresh air is exciting. And she's excited to see what other Districts might look like. Once the anthem has finished playing, her curiosity is sated.

The Reapings go by fairly fast, and her eyes are assaulted with images as she tries to gauge every tribute. District 1 lives up to their reputation as the prettiest District, producing two golden-haired tributes she has no doubt live up to their Career reputation. In fact, the girl tribute even out-volunteers another girl, who has to be dragged away in her fit of rage.

District 2 scares her. The girl waits too long to volunteer, yet when she does she walks with a predatory gait up to the stage. The boy is no less intimidating, with his large bulging muscles. He might be shorter than the girl, but he is much taller and stronger than Halley.

Many of the other tributes pass in a blur, but she finds herself returning to the intimidating batch of Careers. They must be a bloodthirsty lot to volunteer so eagerly like that. Despite the fierceness in her soul brought about by four years looking after herself on the unforgiving streets, Halley can feel her confidence waver. _I'm a fighter. That has to count for something, right?_ she asks herself. Though she's only got a second grade education, Halley's experiences on the street have given her a lot of grit, and more education than she might've ever asked for.

But maybe this will be more difficult than she thought.

* * *

**DISTRICT SIX**

*mild trigger warning in Mercedes' POV*

* * *

_Grin like I'm wild, unstable_

_All of my demons enabled_

_Everything's fine, no emotions_

_Can't seem to live in the moment_

-grandson, Fallin (Temptation)

* * *

**Axel Richthofen** (**16**), **District 6 Tribute**

On another train, he watches them disinterestedly with an exhausted smirk on his face. The little girl with her head held high, nonchalance on her face despite hundreds of eyes watching her. Her dress is too big, and it shows. _You'd think being from the District that leads the nation in the manufacturing of textiles, her clothes would be better-fitting_.

He snorts derisively. The olive-skinned boy, with his fists clenched and swinging at the Peacekeepers in a fit of anger at the predicament. To their credit, they remain blank as they drag him up to the stage, his outrage dismissed. But when have they ever shown emotion? _Lapdogs of the fucking Capitol_.

He's never held the Capitol in high esteem. It's hard to when you live in one of the poorest, most crime-ridden areas of the country. It's practically inescapable. Gangs, drugs and all manner of illicit activities are all the impoverished people of District 6 know, and Axel Richthofen is no stranger. _After all, Mr. Yorusco was the only one to visit me after my name was drawn_.

He opens his eyes again to catch not one, but two volunteers from District 11. _Shocker_, he thinks to himself, a little surprised. _Normally no one who lives that far out will volunteer_.

He had been living it good, in the beginning. With his father being the CEO of a train company which worked for the very Capitol he was speeding towards at the moment, there was plenty of money to be had. But then scandal had caught up to them as easily as any. District 6 was notorious for the rise and fall of honorable businessmen and the shady empires built in their shadows. Julian Richthofen was no exception.

Except it wasn't him. He hadn't seen his mother since she had embezzled so much money out of the Richthofen Train Company. He hadn't seen her since, and to tell the truth, he doesn't know if he'd rather see her drop by, or drop dead from the pain she caused him and his father. As if that pain were a transferable burden for him to give.

He sighs and closes his eyes, taking solace in the casual clicking of his lighter. _Open_. _Closed_. _Open_. The lighter had been emptied a long time ago, but still produces enough of a spark to force his mentor to make a comment about it.

"Try not to catch anything on fire," Axelle Turner tells him. She rubs her hand on her arm, the tattoos seeming to wiggle on her skin as she does so. He looks back at her with dark eyes and gives her a frown.

"You think I'll really burn something?" he groans. District 6's first Victor has already poured herself a couple of drinks, and Axel rolls his eyes at this. _If I held a lighter up to her skin, would she ignite?_ He chuckles to himself and watches as the last pair of tributes are Reaped, a short curly-haired girl and a volunteer boy wearing all black. _As if he's a groom marrying death. How morbid_, Axel thinks. Why anyone would volunteer is beyond him. Both he and the girl across from him, had been Reaped. And by the glassy expression in her dull hazel eyes, he has reason to suspect her visits went about as well as his did.

The only person to see him had been the one-and-only Nandan Yorusco. Not his father nor his mother, who he half-expected to finally make a reappearance in his life. _After all, it was her greed that got me here in the first place_. No, the only one to visit him had been the one to sell his father the morphine. The one who had worsened his condition. After the fifth beating, Yorusco and his boys cast Axel out onto the streets once more.

On the sixth, they had taken him in. And the repayment he had been given in the Justice Building wound up involving a slew of Peacekeepers once he had broken the man's nose. But Mercedes looks different. No scorn, nor contempt. It's eerie how little she has talked the entire time, despite efforts by Camaro Cruz - second most recent Victor - to open her up.

Axel slings his arm over the backrest of the chair, watching the woman with the mohawk converse with the escort. They look so different, the pair of them. One tattooed and drunk, the other prim and proper in a form-fitting white gown.

"Neither of them talk too much," the Capitol woman says in her clipped accent. Camaro twirls noodles with his fork and slurps them loudly, causing the woman to give him a dirty look. "Do you think they're… mental?"

"Oh shut up, would you?" Axel sneers. The escort across the table looks mortified at how he has addressed her. "If anyone's mental, it's the lot of you cheery fuckers. But go ahead, make my day," he quips angrily. He hides his face in his mug, taking a long draught of the rich coffee he has served himself. The woman annoys him; with her bright pink hair and a smile equally as bright. _She's the pinnacle of human filth_, he thinks to himself. _They all are_.

Axel sighs as Axelle gives him a patronizing stare. "I'd pay more respect to Venus," the older woman says with a lopsided grin. She pours herself a second shot of whiskey and raises it to her lips, downing it quickly.

"Burns like shit," she comments with a groan, clearing her throat. "Venus is the one who can get the two of you sponsor gifts," she says pointedly. Camaro nods beside her, his eyes trained on his District partner. Mercedes seems to nod her head at this, her hand wound through a strand of dark black hair and her face unreadable since watching the tapes. Even though the screen has now gone black.

The escort gives him a dramatically grave look. "You should really watch how you act in the Capitol. Wouldn't want to step on any toes, right?" she queries.

"I don't step on toes. I step on necks," he tells her.

* * *

_Do you miss me like I miss you?_

_Fucked around and got attached to you_

_Friends can break your heart too_

_And I'm always tired but never of you_

-gnash (ft. olivia o'brien), i hate u i love u

* * *

**Mercedes Benson** (**16**), **District 6 Tribute**

She can feel her girlfriend's hands on her long after she boarded the train and sped nearly a hundred miles away. She rubs the ache out of her shoulders from where she pressed too hard on her collarbone, and blinks back tears, trying to focus on the meal at hand.

The array of food is richer and more plentiful than anything they would have encountered growing up in one of the poorest areas in Panem. Poor, hardened criminals. Druggies. Orphans. Mercedes Benson hates it. The amount of _shit_ that Uriana had put her through is enough baggage to last her a lifetime. Uriana, with her beautiful eyes, her wavy hair, her lithe body under Mercede's fingertips. Her hands, curled into fists. Her tongue, barbed with a thousand insults. _Ugly. Whore. Not good enough_.

She tries to discreetly push away her plate, but Camaro notices her look of discontent. The Reaping recap finally finishes, and he arches an eyebrow as the anthem of Panem plays once more. Venus seems to hum it to herself, and Camaro mimics vomiting at her endearment of the Capitol propaganda.

"Are you alright?" He asks in a low, suave tone, looking up at her through surprisingly long lashes.

Mercedes nods. "Yeah. I'm just… I don't know whether or not I'm happy to be leaving or not," she confesses. Camaro's eyes darken.

"Is your situation at home really that bad?" he asks with a twitch in his mouth. Mercedes nods, not saying anything for a moment as she watches the world pass in a blur outside the train windows.

The boy, Axel, is having a dispute with their escort over the way she seems to talk. Camaro stands abruptly and shoves his hands in the pockets of his worn denim jacket. "Do you want to find a different place to talk?" he asks her politely. _I do. I don't. I've never told anyone how she treats me_, she thinks.

She nods wordlessly and gets up, watching the escort's face flush at whatever the boy has said to her. She smirks and follows Camaro out of the dining carriage and elsewhere. A Peacekeeper momentarily detains them before allowing them to cross into the next carriage. He stops on the metal bridge, and grips the railing with slender fingers.

"It's okay to admit that you've got an issue, Miss Benson," he tells her. "Six is full of them. That's why we haven't had another Victor since Axelle, because conditions have just gotten worse. What's on your mind?" He asks her, gesturing for her to also take a place next to him in the railing.

The air that whips by into the small break linking the trains together whips and tousles her hair, snagging it into different directions. But the air is crisp and refreshing. They are sheltered from the rain by an overhang developed to make it impossible to jump off or onto the train, but still the slanted droplets lash them where they stand. She looks to him and sees him waiting expectantly for her to speak.

"My girlfriend… she didn't treat me right. My parents are always busy working in the aerial hub, or taking care of my little brother. But when I'm alone with her…" Mercedes trails off, pulling down the neck of her gray sweater. A dark purplish bruise has blossomed on her shoulder in the short time since they had left for the Capitol. _Why are you leaving me? Stupid bitch_.

Broken bottles and broken promises were all she knew with Uriana, but she couldn't resist falling back into her arms. The sight of her was as intoxicating as the alcohol she drank, the shards of glass that Mercedes picked up from the stained carpet when she was no longer coherent enough to do it herself.

_But I can't leave her. And now I am_. Guilt plagues her mind as she thinks of what will become of Uriana now that the one person who cared about her is gone.

Camaro looks at her with dark eyes, an expression of great concern. He steps forward and wraps her in a hug. She makes a soft noise of surprise and leans further into the hug. He rubs her back a little and shields her face from the wind.

_He's only two years older than me, yet he's grown up more than I can ever understand_. "The arena changes people, Mercedes. Don't bring your personal grudges and vendettas into it. You've got an unbreakable spirit… don't let yourself be broken again. The Games can be an opportunity for you to either let yourself go, or find out who you really are."

He releases her and stares back out at the wall of green whizzing by the train. "Axelle let herself go. It might have been the years of training tributes all by herself. But I've been doing better. It's a matter of perspective on life, Mercedes."

She looks at him with gratitude in her eyes. "Thank you." He nods, and opens the door to the other train with a keycard. The door makes a suction noise as it pops free of the frame's rubber grasp, and opens. The pair of them head back into the main carriage, and Camaro gives the Peacekeeper a nod. Both of their cheeks are red from the wind, and their clothes slightly damp from the rain.

"Where did you go?" asks Venus with a haughty expression. "I know your tribute last year had… unnatural affection for you, but we really don't need to make it a habit, do we?" Mercedes can see her mentor clench his fist at the snarkiness of the Capitolite.

_Whore_. "I'm not interested in Camaro like that. But at least someone was. I'm doubt you've gotten anything in the past twenty years," she throws back. _Abusive or not, this woman is too uptight to let a little loose_.

Venus splutters indignantly at the caustic remark, but Axelle bursts out laughing. "You'd do good to get that stick out of your ass," she says, wiping a tear from her eye. She stands up, gripping the table for support. _She's totally wasted_, Mercedes thinks. _No wonder no one has won until Camaro_. "I'm gonna go check on Axel. He seems to be a little pissed off today," she says. With that, she walks off to the far end of the carriage to get a Peacekeeper to unlock the door.

"Sleeping quarters are over there," Camaro tells her. It's not yet darkened outside. Typically it takes about a day to reach the Capitol, and they'll be there by nightfall. _By nightfall, the Games officially begin_.

But looking back, they begun the moment she left.

* * *

**Axel Richthofen** (**16**), **District 6 Tribute**

She finds him in his room later, his arms folded as he sits on the bed. He's still wearing the hoodie, the smells of smoke and rubber being familiarized as the only things left from his District. The windows are stained with rain, a shower that had started less than two hours ago after the Reaping recap had ended.

He can see the ghost of his face against the glass, with its sunken cheekbones and dirty blonde hair. He looks hollow with emotion. Perhaps that's why she's come.

Axelle stares at him with arms similarly folded, her eyes trained on his face. The train has not ceased to a stop even three hours after being on board, yet time seems to stretch for a millennia as she drags this out.

"You see? Take a second. You can't just condemn the entire human race. You may not like Venus. You may not like Camaro, or Mercedes. But you don't get a choice when it comes to me. You _have_ to like me." Her eyes crease with a smile. "I'm your lifeline, and for fuck's sake, we've got practically the same name!" She is careful not to touch him, but behind the drunken veil that has descended over her irises, he know she means well. He knows she cares.

But it's been too long since someone has cared whether he lived or died. Certainly not his father, enthralled by the alcohol as he is. Certainly not Mr. Yorusco, who demanded Axel give him all of his savings. _You won't be needing them where you're going_, he had said. _I'll need them when I return_.

He nods to the woman in front of him, her dark caramel skin weather-beaten and taking on a mottled hue from what he can only assume is morphine injections. He hasn't seen someone pay this much attention to him since Volvo, another employee of his boss, had taken him in to educate him. To teach him how to navigate tricky business deals and fight dirty on the streets. He looks at her with a spark of hope behind all the mistrust in his eyes, and takes her calloused hand.

She has given him a grain of hope, and he will be damned if he lets it slip through his fingers.

* * *

**End Note****: Ha! I hope this wasn't too much of a beast for you guys to read as it was for me to write. I just got kind of inspired by the initial train rides, and again, being my first SYOT, am always trying to figure out what's going to work for me. So naturally this was re-written a grand total of twice. I'm sorry for the weird gaps between chapters and the ever-changing format and structure of them too. But anyway, leave a review and let me know your thoughts on this group of tributes! I think they turned out well (despite the delay and my recognizable lack of effort towards the ending of District 6), to tell you the truth. :)**

**District 8 Team:**

**\- Darnius Paisley, male D8 tribute**

**\- Halley Verron, female D8 tribute**

**\- Twyla Bobbin (Mentor of Both), 15th Victor**

**\- Agustus, the Escort**

**District 6 Team: **

**\- Axel Richthofen, male D6 tribute**

**\- Axelle Turner (Axel's Mentor), 8th Victor**

**\- Mercedes Benson, female D6 tribute**

**\- Camaro Cruz (Mercedes' Mentor), 27th Victor**

**\- Venus, the Escort**

**The further I get, the more invested in these tributes I get. I've been given a cast with a LOT of potential, and that excites me a lot. Until next time!**

**Have a good day / night! :)**


	9. Chapter 9: Train Rides Part 2

**DISTRICT FIVE**

* * *

_Flat on the floor of my life_

_The world just leaves me behind_

_I wanted more at this point_

_But I keep losing my voice_

-droeloe (ft. nevve), backbone

* * *

**Nyxandrea Nexus** (**16**), **District 5 Tribute**

The necklace feels wrong around her neck, but she clutches the smooth sun charm, warm from some combination of her brother's fingers and her own.

They had traded before she had boarded the train, her and her brother Solander. She wipes the tears from the corners of her eyes, the half-dried tracks feeling sticky against her porcelain skin. She feels thrown off balance, as know a heavier charm hangs on her necklace than the thin sliver of the comforting crescent moon. _I've been on this train not an hour and I'm already fed up listening to them cavorting outside_. She sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose in frustration.

The room itself is massive, and though she enjoyed a fair amount of pampering from living with the Nexus name following her own, the opulence of the room is nevertheless astounding. But there's a bitterness in her mouth when she thinks about just what the room represents. _Wealth and luxury… built off the backs of the Districts_. The beautiful satin sheets, no doubt a luxury the spinsters of Eight can't afford. The constant glow of the lightbulbs overhead. Electricity, when the majority of homes in Five, _her_ District, are kept in the dark even though they are the ones who produce it.

_It's unfair. The whole situation is unfair_.

_The games are unfair_.

She sighs and rolls over on the bed, watching two teardrops of rain slide down the thick frosted windows, racing to reach the bottom first. And that seems to be all that life in Panem is, a rat race.

She chokes on the realization of just how much she will miss her family, her life back in Five. Of her mother and father and their ceaseless romance, her brother's banter and mischief. It was often that she had to scold Solander, yet there wasn't much she could do to stop Sol and his friends from prancing about the streets sticking their noses into trouble.

But Nyx preferred to stay out of the way, going on runs with Dean instead of getting in trouble. She suddenly misses his competitiveness. Often in the early mornings, while the skies were gray and bleak before the sun breaks out, she and Dean would go run around the block. It was always a different feeling, being up before anyone else. _Like we had the whole city to ourselves_. He'd push her to keep up with him, and oftentimes the two would race down the empty streets.

She didn't like to lose, and neither did Dean. But more often than not, she won when he tired out after the first couple of blocks, or narrowly avoided colliding with a lamp-post. She would revel in the victories. _It was satisfying to win_, she thinks. _But this… this is the one game I'm not sure I can win_.

A knock on her door startles her, and she sighs, rubbing her face. "Come in," she murmurs under her breath, before realizing the door is locked. She groans and gets off the gray comforter to unlock it, and finds herself face to face with her District partner.

"You look really nice," he says, offering her a very professional smile. With her white blouse and high-waisted black skirt, she would be inclined to agree, even despite the rosy blush creeping into her cheeks. "They're waiting for you before they'll discuss anything with me." _Again, that smile_.

She vaguely recognizes him as one of Sol's friends, but she knows he isn't one of the loud and rowdy ones. She remembers the curly-haired kid who often hung to the back of the group, electing to observe rather than participate. He was often the one to keep her brother in check, when she was not around. Today, he wears a crisp white shirt, and a blue suit-vest and slacks. _Like the Hunger Games are some sort of formal event, when all they are is fucking barbaric_.

His face is unreadable as he offers Nyx a hand. _Formal_. She shakes his hand, and thinks she sees something change in his eyes when she does. "Sorrel Nettleson," he says. This time it's without a smile.

He flattens himself against the wall - the carriage seeming solid despite the pace of the train - and allows her to pass by. She hears the snick of the door behind her against its chrome metal frame, and takes a steady breath as she walks down the length of the hall toward the door that leads to the dining carriage.

A Peacekeeper opens the door for them, and a sheet of rain lashes out at them. Sorrel crabs sideways in front of her in an attempt to protect her from the rain, his face remaining impassive. The next door is opened and Nyx shivers, taking off her small purple jacket and folding it in a careless fashion over the back of her chair. The three adults sitting at the table stop mid-conversation and look up at her.

"Look who decided to join us!" says the Escort. The dark-skinned man has styled and dyed his hair into a nest of curly ombre flames atop his head, and Nyx can find her curiosity growing as to how it stays in place even when he gets up from the table and struts over to the pair of them. "Oh I'm so happy you're going to eat with us! You know, I was beginning to be afraid that you would just lock yourself up…"

His words start to grow more meaningless the longer he talks, and Nyx ignores his outstretched arms, numbly taking a seat at the table instead. She can feel Sorrel's presence beside her, pulling out a chair of his own. It feels familiar somehow, as if she has shared such a moment with the boy before; yet she cannot remember when or where she might've.

"So," begins the woman across the table, her hair dyed an electric pink. A pregnant pause fills the air, and Nyx waits for her to resume speaking, tapping her foot impatiently against the rich wooden floor.

"Let's discuss what the two of you should prepare for."

* * *

_I don't know if you feel the same as I do_

_But we could be together, if you wanted to_

_I'm sorry to interrupt it's just I'm constantly_

_on the cusp of trying to kiss you_

-Arctic Monkeys, Do I Wanna Know?

* * *

**Sorrel Nettleson** (**15**), **District 5 Tribute**

He can feel the tension in the room as he picks up a fork and serrated knife, ever the civilized one, and begins to neatly cut bites off of a juicy-looking steak tenderloin drenched in a garlicky smelling sauce. _It tastes nothing like what Mom and Dad used to make, but it's not half bad_, he thinks.

It just happens to be oversaturated, like everything else in the Capitol. The train itself is quite lavish - and unnecessarily so - but Sorrel finds himself studying it out of the corner of his eye. It's much different than home, and he is beginning to wonder what it would have been like to grow up here rather than back home.

Sorrel looks up and watches the girl sitting next to him out of his peripheral vision. Her hair is pulled into a neat ponytail, and her eyes are looking at the escort with a degree of blatant hostility.

Genera clears her throat, and looks pointedly at the other woman, with the pink hair, to start instructing now that everyone is settled in and helping themselves to the savory feast laid out in front of them.

"We're headed for the Capitol right now. I know it seems very sudden, but all twenty-four of you are going to be in the Capitol by the time the sun starts to go down. You'll be cleaned, dressed, and sent out on chariots by the end of the night, and do-"

Kaycee Watt, ever the overlooked one - mostly due to Aurelia Dior's conclusive victory overshadowing her own - was cut off yet again by the escort.

"Do _not_ dismiss how important this is!" the Escort grins maniacally. "We all love a confident pair of tributes, and this is the first time anyone _important_ gets to see you in person, so make sure you leave a good impression. Otherwise you won't be sponsored!" He trills, speaking very rapidly. Sorrel says nothing, choosing instead to try a shrimp chowder than to talk to any of the adults.

Genera sighs again, with the impatience District 5 tributes have had to deal with for the past twenty-three years and running. "Next time, Ignatius, please let Miss Watt finish. Ninety percent of what she has to say to them is going to be more _important_ than what you do."

The man shuts up, looking absolutely crestfallen at the thought. Sorrel hides a snort at his misfortune and glances over at his District partner again. _I wonder if she recognizes me_, he thinks. Ever since the move from District 11, Sorrel had found it hard to find friends. _They all picked on me for looking different. For acting different_, he thinks, looking down at his warm brown hands. Solander Nexus was one of the first people he had made a solid enough bond with, and also one of the first he had realized was about just as sentimental and caring as a rock.

_But his sister was the real enigma_. She seemed convoluted; the girl was _so_ demanding, yet did not seem to realize the reason she was often left alone by other girls was the mechanism of her own personality. It took Sorrel several years to realize how he felt. _That in some silent way, even after she stopped talking to me… that I'm in love with her_.

_And now we're here_.

He wants to groan. The only opportunity he gets for her to bother paying attention to him, and it's because of the _fucking_ Hunger Games. Sorrel can feel himself slipping back away from listening to the conversation, and when someone says his name, he's out of it.

"_Sorrel_," says Kaycee. "You alright?"

He nods, giving her a wide grin. "My apologies, Miss Watt. I'm fine." He resumes eating for a moment as the group continues to bicker about what they'll need to do next. Kaycee suggests watching the Reaping recaps, but Nyx gives them a glare when it's brought up.

"I don't _want_ to watch them," She says sarcastically, standing up from the table. "I don't care to see the faces of who is going to kill me"

"Nyxandrea, you are being a _brat_," Genera snarls, her nostrils flaring with undisguised annoyance at this girl.

"It's _Nyx_," says the girl coldly, her porcelain skin flaring with heat. "I prefer Nyx."

"That's not the name that I called off the slip," says Ignatius, twirling some kind of noodle around his fork.

"Well _maybe _if you _hadn't_ read my name off the slip, I wouldn't have to sit here and have this conversation!" With that, Nyx gets up and storms out of the carriage.

Sorrel sighs. The emphasis that the escort is making on irritating the pair of them - purposeful or not - is starting to grate on him too. But with a curious eye, he nods to the pair of mentors and crinkles those eyes with a smile. "I'd like to watch the recap, if you wouldn't mind," he tells them politely.

Genera nods absentmindedly and aims the remote at the television on the wall. Color blossoms onto the glassy screen and she presses a few buttons so that the Reapings begin to broadcast.

It begins with the anthem of Panem playing, and he turns to Genera and Kaycee. "If I'm going to survive, I'll need a lot more than just sponsors, won't I?" He gestures to the first two Districts - Careers - and continues. "I mean, they _train_ to be picked for these, right? What should I learn to make sure I have a chance against them?"

Genera thinks for a moment as the third set of Reapings roll out, with a redheaded girl and an overly excited boy. _Strange_. "After the Tribute Parade, you'll all be training for the next few days before the private sessions with the Head Gamemaker. I'd suggest you spend time learning as much survival knowledge as you can. I wouldn't waste time with much weaponry. Tributes like them," she points up at the pair of raven-haired tributes from District 4, "are going to try to intimidate the rest of you."

Kaycee nods. "Don't let it bother you. I'd recommend learning an axe or a sword, something you can swing and still deal damage with. Knives will likely be the most common form of weapon apart from whatever is in the Cornucopia, so those would be a safe bet too."

Sorrel nods thoughtfully, assessing the Careers as they talk. Some of them look overconfident, but behind their eyes he thinks he can see glimmers of doubt. _Maybe they'll all fall apart this year and hunt each other down instead_. He tries to ignore District 5's Reapings, but his eyes are glued to the screen anyways.

Her face is red and streaked with tears, a foul-looking frown turning her lips towards the ground. He feels a pang in his heart as he sees her biting her lip in an attempt to remain dignified onstage, and he watches himself - as if through a mirror - walk up to join her with a face smoother than ice.

_I wonder how all these Careers see us, if they're watching_. He ponders this for a moment, watching the seal of District 6 flash on the screen, before he gets up from the table. As much as he'd like to sit and evaluate all of the competition, his District partner is alone and isolated at the moment.

She got that way a lot, he noticed. Unless she was running around the block with her running partner, she was often by herself. _And I've always kept my distance_. No longer will he sit and watch her, despite how intriguing she is. _It's been years since I've even talked to her. It's time to do something_.

It's her eyes are what haunts him, long after she has slammed the door shut. The same eyes that haunt him every _single_ night, with beautiful green depths that he is dying to unravel.

He stands up and brushes off his slacks, neatly folding the napkin. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go check on Nyxandrea," he tells the adults before getting a Peacekeeper to unlock the door for him. He steps out into the space between the two carriages and staggers backward as the wind pushes at him with gusto.

_Nyx… my beautiful enigma, stuck in her own white bread world_. And now she is alongside him on the train, headed for what he could only guess would be the boom of a cannon. _Spelling my death_.

_Or hers_. The thought had plagued the back of his mind ever since the pair of them were Reaped. Ignatius called her name, and his heart fell straight to his feet.

Once inside the next carriage, he stretches his shoulders and tries to summon up whatever determination he has left in him.

With a deep breath, Sorrel schools his face into neutrality and knocks on the door to her bedroom.

* * *

**Nyxandrea Nexus** (**16**), **District 5 Tribute**

She lets him stand at the doorway for a moment before widening the opening to let him through. This time, he does not offer her a hand. With unreadable brown eyes, he looks at her instead.

She stares at him too, for a moment, and furrows her brows, prompting him to speak. "Sorry the escort decided to act up," he says gingerly. Nyx sighs and buries her head in her hands. She appreciates him coming to talk with her, but his emotionless blank slate of a face doesn't help to console her much.

"You do look cute when you're angry." _How can he look like a dead fish and still be bold enough to flirt with me? _She wonders, her cheeks inevitably turning pink.

"I do _not_," she insists, appalled at how easily he's made her blush with such an unorthodox gesture.

"You do," he says calmly, taking another step into the room. His face remains unfazed despite her look of general discomfort, but he moves on.

"After you left we did watch the Recap. I wanted to know what we might have to face down the line, and I don't like surprises."

"The competition doesn't look too stiff this year," continues Sorrel, his hands placed carefully in his pockets. He seems oblivious to the absence of her voice as he leans against the wall. She sits on the bed, sinking back into the too-soft pillows as she tries to tune him out.

"It seems like there's a good chunk of little kids this year," he tells her. "But the Careers look pretty… on the edge, from what I could tell." He pulls up a chair and sits on it, bringing his face level to hers so that those brown eyes might meet her own green ones in a look of solace. But she still finds none. _Who put a stick up his ass?_ She wonders if he ever breaks this look of impossible calm, and is frustrated when she can't find the answer in his face or in her head.

She sighs and stares at the ceiling. "I don't _want_ to think about it."

He leans in and brushes an escaped strand of her hair back behind her ear. His breath is cool, and despite just eating on the train, does not smell. She can feel her heart pounding at his sudden closeness, and chastises herself. _Ever the hopeless romantic, just like Mom._ Part of her is angry at finding this boy's gestures of comfort as _romantic_, but given how Dean never treated her this way, she can't help but wonder if there is something more resting behind his eyes.

"You do realize… you're going to have to think about it. This is very much real," he explains to her.

"I know," she mutters, watching the raindrops race on the window yet again.

Sorrel runs a hand through his thick, curly hair. "Do you want to be my ally?" He blurts out, his voice wavering slightly as he vocalizes the thought. Nyx ponders this for a moment. _Having an ally could be helpful, so I'm not on my own. Plus, he's one of Sol's friends, I'm sure of it! _She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

"Sure," she agrees. "We can watch each other's backs in the Arena, make sure we don't do anything too stupid." She allows the silence of what's left unsaid to fall between them.

_Only one of them can make it out. Not both_.

Sorrel's eyes seem to change again, and his smile takes on a feral edge, even if just for a split second. "Trust me, Nyxandrea. There's nothing stupid we _could_ do. Even if we wanted to." _Again, that fucking name!_

"It's not N…" the words die on her lips as she catches her anger written all over her face in the mirror. She instead unties her ponytail and lets her brown hair fall down to her shoulders. "I guess you're right," she quickly follows up with a tired half-smile.

He reaches out a hand as if he is to touch her shoulder, but drops his hand to his side uncomfortably at her expression. "I think we'll be fine. We're supposed to be in the Capitol in about an hour, and then we'll have to get prepared for the stylists." The silence returns. Then, "I'll leave you to it," he says, picking up the chair and carefully setting it exactly where it started. "But before we step off this train, you might want to find your spine," the boy warns.

He walks out of the room with deliberate movements and closes the door very carefully, leaving her alone with her thoughts. _I'm not spineless_.

She tries to forget, to lose herself in her head as she often did running in the mornings with Dean, whose smile was easy and natural in comparison to Sorrel's carefully guarded one. She touches the sun necklace around her neck gently, wishing that Sol hadn't swapped with her. It's a foreign object, hanging around her neck, and one she isn't sure if she welcomes.

_Like the Games_.

_I don't want to accept the reality_. But Nyx quickly finds herself understanding the one thing she didn't want to. She is now too deep; a part of this inescapable circus.

The water clinging to the glass outside becomes mirrored inside the bathroom as she turns on the faucet and the water pressure causes it to spray onto the mirror. Nyx doesn't flinch, and instead runs her hands under the faucet, rubbing the water into her skin, across the freckles and flaming red cheeks.

_I've spent too long trying to stay ignorant_, she thinks, watching the trees give way to a downtrodden field with wild grasses soaked from the earlier rainstorm. _I've been trying too hard to forget._

She draws her shoulder blades together and takes a deep breath. _Sorrel's right._

_It's time for me to grow a fucking backbone_.

* * *

**DISTRICT TEN**

*animal abuse in Ruben's POV*

* * *

_Help me make the most_

_Of freedom and of pleasure_

_Nothing ever lasts forever_

_Everybody wants to rule the world_

-Lorde, Everybody Wants To Rule The World

* * *

**Ruben Bolt** (**18**), **District 10 Tribute**

_It's a glorified execution for a crime I didn't commit_, he thinks gravely to himself. _For all the crimes you did commit_, Gray's voice seems to tickle the back of his skull. But the system is bullshit - it's always been bullshit, and now he can see why.

Why should the Capitolites - like their escort Caius - live with enough excess wealth to make a whole family live comfortably for a year? _Why should they reap the benefits of our labor, while we starve and die?_

It makes Ruben angry. The poverty of the outlier Districts is common knowledge, but the squandering of wealth on a _train carriage_ pisses him off. There's no need for crystalline lights and plush velvet seats when his family couldn't even provide the basics for he or his older siblings.

Catching dogs hadn't been his original plan when he stepped foot on the streets not yet four years ago. It's certainly not something a younger Ruben would be proud of. But there was money to be made in the underworld of District 10, and if his boss had told him to catch another hundred dogs to throw in the fighting rings, he would.

What does it matter if the money came from dirty sourcing? _It's dirty money that kept us alive. It's dirty money that kept us above the poverty line, if I caught one worth betting on._

He had grown accustomed to the savage snarling of the beasts as their long yellow teeth ripped into each other's pelts. Being the one to catch the dogs, he tended to simultaneously be the one to win the most bets, as he could tell which one would be quicker, or stronger. _I can usually tell which one will be staining the dirt at the end of a fight too_. The din of voices clamoring to place bets and the intoxicated shouting at the beasts in the ring below were all a very stark contrast to the comfortable silence of the train. It's a different kind of silence than he is used to; the only other kinds being the silence of home and the stillness of Gray when the pair lay in the night, bodies tangled under the sheets.

He finds himself wondering what his boyfriend is thinking right now, but shrugs it off. Gray will likely move on once he's dead, all thoughts of getting married and moving in together erased from his head.

_Gone. Forgotten. _He grips his hand around the arm band, the cool metal of the chain digging into his flesh.

_It was the last chance they had to take me from my life, and they succeeded._

Ruben runs his hands through his ebony hair with a sigh, wondering how Caius is able to get his hair to stand straight up when Ruben's own always falls into his eyes. _I've got to cut it again, if the stylists don't._

As if mirroring his thoughts, the escort passes him sprawled on the couch and looks him up and down. "I can't _wait_ to see how much better you'll look once our stylists are done with you!" the man chirps, the rings on his fingers clinking with the dramatic gesture of opening and closing a pair of giant imaginary scissors. Ruben is positive his voice has never lowered a single octave in his whole life, and would laugh if this silly man had not just insulted him.

"I look just fine, you _asshole_," the boy snarls, amused when the escort's eyebrows shoot up. "Maybe they'll shave the dead animal off your head too while they're at it." _Two of us can play at this game_. He snorts with laughter, causing the mentors heads to spin around in their direction.

"Calm down, kiddo!" The woman shouts at him. He rolls his eyes a little as the escort walks off with a very audible display of indignance. The mentors have been fairly quiet since they boarded the train. Maybe they have nothing to say to the pair of them, but he's since become disinterested in them after they discussed the Games over a rich meal. Instead, he elects to focus on the competition he's going to be facing in less than a week from now in the Arena.

The Reapings begin with the ever-patriotic anthem, for which he chooses to sit. It's not like anyone can see him, or force him to stand. Not even the Peacekeepers, who salute as it blares over the speakers even at their stations by the entries and exits of the train.

The Recap then begins, and he cranes his neck to see into the dining carriage. _I guess the girl doesn't care enough to see who she's dealing with_, he thinks to himself as the first two Reapings flash by. He ignores the Careers for the most part. They're always the same, wrapped up in their dreams of glory and medals. Even last year's Victor, from Four, was the same way, despite her dramatic performance towards the finale.

_Bloodthirsty, like a prodded dog_. He grins a little. District 3 surprises him, with both tributes looking scrawny. But the boy looks happy to be on the stage. _Maybe he's the one I should watch out for. Or kill_, Ruben thinks. The thought doesn't quite make him squeamish. _I know what needs to be done_.

"Are you seeing this?" he asks his mentor as Five's scared-looking girl and collected boy are followed by two glowering tributes from Six. _Yikes_.

He gets no response, and instead focuses on the second half of the Districts. The last six Districts produce a weak-looking arrangement of girls - his partner included - and a score of boys trying to look tough. The girl from Seven, whose name he already forgot, and Arley from Nine look like tributes he could take on in his sleep. He's surprised the latter volunteered for her sister at such a young age.

_Maybe she's mental, too. _He's getting a seriously mental vibe from his partner, come to think of it. All she's done is stand and rock on her heels, and her violet eyes deeply unnerve him.

He watches a slew of volunteers from the final few Districts before the screen cuts to black, and fades so that all color is leached out of the glass and the wall again can be seen behind it. He hears heavy footsteps behind him and shifts in his seat toward the source.

"So what are your thoughts on this year's competition?" His mentor asks him as she returns from the table, stifling a burp as she sits back on the couch with him.

"Discounting the Careers, I'd say there's a good mix between brave-faced kids and a couple of criers." He shrugs his shoulders. "No one I think I'd be desperate to ally with," he admits.

"I'd be glad you don't plan on getting attached," Bulla tells him gruffly. "Any friends you make in the arena aren't really your friends," she says, her voice taking on a bitter edge as she stands up from the couch and heads into the dining carriage to get something else to eat before they arrive in the Capitol. "You may think you'll miss them. You might despise yourself for letting them die. But when you boil it all down to the roots, it's a deathmatch. Why spend your time worrying about everyone else if you're the only one who will make it out anyway?" She leaves him with her words and disappears around the corner, leaving him to stare at the blank screen and contemplate.

He thinks again of the little kids; the boy pumping his fist and the girl trying to kiss her escort, and makes a decision. _I know what the stakes are_. _I know how to get sponsors to help me out, and getting a kill in the bloodbath will certainly make me stand out._

His lips quirk into a small, dangerous smile.

_None of them will see it coming anyway_.

* * *

_Welcome to your life_

_There's no turning back_

_Even while we sleep_

_We will find you_

-Lorde, Everybody Wants To Rule The World

* * *

**Evanna 'Evie' Lynn **(**15**), **District 10 Tribute**

She pops another decadent chocolate candy into her mouth, savoring the sweet texture. It's not often that such luxurious items were around back home in District 10, but she'd tried chocolate once or twice before when her parents could afford it.

But by now, she had eaten triple the amount of chocolates in the past fifteen minutes than she had consumed in the entirety of her life until now, choosing to focus on the flavor of the candy to ground her in the present. It doesn't work; and Evie can feel her throat constricting with panic as she thinks about what lies ahead of her.

Her trance-like spell of panic is cloven in half by the booming noise of the anthem on the television, and Evie results the urge to clap her hands over her ears. _Everything is so loud here_, she groans to herself, her fingers scrabbling for another chocolate.

"Slow down, sweetie, or you'll get sick," one of the mentors says kindly, his eyes not reflecting that kindness. Instead, he looks hollowed-out. She shoves the wrappers in the nearby trash can, trying to ignore both the twitch in her eye and the man.

"Trust me on that one," the dark-skinned man agrees with himself. "I've seen a lot of tributes in the past years go right for the sweets, or the coffee, and get jittery. A few have even thrown up!" He chuckles.

She nods slowly, closing her eyes to take a deep breath. She squashes the sudden surge of anger at his proposition and tells herself he's only trying to help her from his past experiences.

Evie gives him a grin, baring her pearly whites. _They match my hair!_ She grins, thinking about how _cool_ that must look to the Capitol. Despite her near-breakdown on both the stage after being Reaped, she feels proud that the Capitol must be paying attention to her.

With chin-length white hair and violet eyes, Evie is quite the unusual sight, especially for someone in District 10. The majority of others, like the dark-haired boy lounging on the couch, seem to blend in with the livestock they raise. People would often stare, and wonder how the daughter of the normal-looking Lynn family had some to look so... strange.

Her sister didn't share the same features. _But it doesn't matter_, Evie reflects bitterly, feeling rage bubble up in her throat. _Evelyn died five years ago, and still people come up and ask me where she is! _Evie sighs in frustration. She doesn't understand why people seem to think that the pair of them looked the same, or why people have forgotten the little girl cut down all those years ago in the bloodbath before the Quarter Quell.

Evie steadies her breathing again, and asks the man a question. "Can you make him move?" she asks her mentor, Arther Lowan, pointing an accusatory finger at her district partner.

Her mentor shakes his head. "You could ask him nicely, but he might want to be on the couch. He looks rather tired. Why would you want to make him move?"

She shakes her head. "I want to watch last year's Games. Do you think I could pick up some tips on how they used weapons?"

Her mentor shrugs. "I guess you might be able to watch and see their techniques. But the best learning you'll be able to do is in the Training Center. You'll be there as soon as tomorrow morning, Evanna." The man clears his throat politely and sets down his fork. "I didn't know anything before stepping foot in the Arena, and neither did Bulla," he says, jerking his head towards where the brutish woman is sitting. "The point is for you to learn while you're there, and you really should have a good shot," he tells her.

"Just steer clear of the Careers, dear," the escort pipes up. "You wouldn't hold up against them at all. Ruben might have a chance, but they're trained _and_ more muscular than little old you." She clenches her jaw when he speaks up, and lobs a chocolate at his head.

It hits him square in his overly-gelled hair, and he whips around, looking affronted. She glares at him, absolutely seething. "I'm tired of the pair of you _mongrels_ disrespecting me! You're no better than the animals you raise!" With that, her eye begins to throb with anger and she throws herself at him. Only Arther's strong arms are able to grab and hold her back just in time from punching him in the face.

But she doesn't have to.

"Evanna, what the f-?" He's cut off as Ruben appears in the dining carriage, slamming his fist into the man's nose. Caius reels back, bright red blood dripping onto the carefully cleaned carpets.

"HEY!" Shouts Bulla, grabbing Ruben's shoulder and pushing my away from the whimpering man. "Calm the fuck down you two!" She and Arther begin to shout at the pair of them, trying to diffuse the situation, but Evie is cackling. She looks down at the man at her feet and gives him a cold smile. _Don't talk down to me like that_, she thinks, wishing she could spit in his face.

Their voices are a storm that passes in a blur, and ends with Arther in front of her, his strong fingers still wrapped tightly around her thin arms. "Did you hear me? No more fighting. I don't care if he offended you, okay? You're going to have to learn to let things slide off your back if you want people to like you, and if people don't like you, you aren't going to win," he tells her adamantly, waiting for a verbal response from her. When he gets it, he lets her go.

Bulla takes over as Arther shakily pours himself a drink. "Go to your room, all right? Both of you. We'll be in the Capitol in less than an hour, and I don't want everyone's first impression of District 10 to be that we're all a bunch of backwards savages."

Not for the first time, Evie wishes she could have taken her cat with her as a token instead of the beaded necklace her father had given her. She had gotten to say goodbye to him alongside the rest of her family, but Vinnie was the only thing that helped ground her when she became anxious or violent, and brushing or playing with the cat had quickly become the easiest way she could calm herself and keep a neutral demeanor.

"I'm so sorry," she tells the escort as sweetly as she can manage, offering him a smooth, tanned hand. He stares up at her with wary eyes, so she offers him a big smile to get him to take her hand. He does, and she helps him up from the floor, which now has a few drying bloodstains on it.

"I'll go to my room," she nods to Bulla. "And I'll definitely come back in a great mood! I'm feeling better already, so sorry for all of that!" She bounces on her heels and takes a blank look from the woman as her cue to head off to her room. The white-clad men open the door for her and she hurries to the next carriage, glad that the rain has finally let up.

She is completely oblivious to the shocked and uncomfortable eyes following her out the door

* * *

**Ruben Bolt** (**18**), **District 10 Tribute**

He follows her after a moment, not glancing at the escort, not apologizing for his actions. His knuckles do not hurt, either. _I'm plenty used to shit like this_, he shakes his head as he catches the door before it closes and gives the Peacekeeper a long look.

The emptiness of their masks has always given him the willies. Maybe the men inside have emotions, but the blankness of the helmets as they carry out the commonplace brutal beatings in District 10 is dismaying. Yet despite the mentors asking him repeatedly why he had punched Caius, not a single one of the soldiers had stepped forward to discipline him.

Empty, like his father's words to him in the Justice building. Like Roscoe's eyes when his boss was displeased about losing a champion dog to some other mongrel in the pits. _How dare Caius compare us to mongrels? Does the Capitol really think so lowly of us?_

He throws himself on the bed without bothering to take his shoes off, and is pleasantly surprised when he sinks into the neatly smoothed duvet.

It's a shame that he only gets a few days to enjoy living in such lavish comfort. _I could get used to this_. But he would give it all up to be back home. Despite the wins and losses, home is where his heart lies, and he'd do anything to be back home holding Gray Houston tight in his arms.

Ruben Bolt knows exactly what he needs to do to get home. _The path isn't easy, but it's a necessary evil_.

The Capitol, the parades and parties, and the roaring crowds do not faze him; they are of little importance. In the end, it boils down really simply what he's going to need to do in order to return.

_He's going to have to catch and kill humans instead of dogs._

* * *

**End Note**: **Here we have Districts 5 and 10!**

**District 5 Team: **

**Sorrel Nettleson, male D5 tribute**

**Kaycee Watt (Sorrel's Mentor), 24th Victor**

**Nyxandrea Nexus, female D5 tribute**

**Genera Jamison (Nyx's Mentor), 5th Victor**

**Ignatius, the Escort**

**District 10 Team:**

**Ruben Bolt, male D10 tribute**

**Bulla Farner (Ruben's Mentor), 21st Victor**

**Evanna Lynn, female D10 tribute**

**Arther Lowan (Evie's Mentor), 16th Victor**

**Caius, the Escort**

**I'd like to apologize again for the long gap in between updates. Life got really rough these past few weeks for a multitude of reasons, such as a lot of family shit and the place I work is going to be closing permanently (ironically the same day the SYOT awards begin). I have a lot of ideas and inspiration, but finding the time is the hard part. **

**On a different note, I definitely tried to get the personalities of Sorrel and Nyx right. They have a very interesting and angsty dynamic, and while not all of their personality has been shown completely (which rings true for the majority of tributes), I look forward to writing everyone in the Capitol. Ruben and Evanna were wonderful as well (and had the same theme song!), and though I feel like they may have been potentially overshadowed by District 5, they were both both solid character concepts and I enjoyed writing them, even if I feel like I didn't do them the justice they deserve just for the sake of putting out a chapter. It's… it's been a while lmao.**

**Districts 12 and 4 will round out the character introductions, and the next chapter will have some information at the bottom concerning the next stage of the story, that anyone who has submitted (or is just a reader!) may want to read.**

**I'm excited to finish the introductions and move into the Capitol phase of this story, where I can crack open some of these tributes further now that the exposition-heavy chapters are *almost* done.**

**As per usual, I'll update the 'Update' tab in my bio.**

**Love you all, and have a great day/night! :))**


	10. Chapter 10: Train Rides Part 3

**Beginning Note****: #EscortLives**_**Do**_**Matter**

**I read the reviews and I love getting to hear from you all, even if it is a complaint about my inconsistent uploading schedule lmao. But with that cleared up, our FINAL two Districts!**

* * *

**DISTRICT TWELVE**

***tw for self-harm/suicide in Reynolds POV***

* * *

_Painting the night with sun_

_You and I, mirrors of light_

_Twin flames of fire_

_Lit in another time and place_

-Two Steps From Hell, Star Sky

* * *

**Mariela 'Mar' Polaris **(**15**), **District 12 Tribute**

_I wonder how many of them think I'm the mayor's daughter_, she thinks ruefully to herself. Of course, if she had been the mayor's daughter, the chances of her getting Reaped would have been astronomically lower.

The stunning white dress is from the Iparis family, but the assumption would stop there. Rich girls _always_ cry, and by the age of fifteen, Mariela Polaris has gone through enough to know how to keep her composure. She supposes angrily that it must be because they don't expect to be Reaped. But in Twelve, even the charity of the Mayor's family isn't enough to quell the need to sign up for tesserae when the winters come and what little home gardens are kept wilt and die.

Life in Twelve is hard; little electricity, no running water, starvation and sickness are easy to fall prey to. Sometimes children will fall asleep and never wake up, their skeletal frames removed gently from the homes by a legion of gravediggers. The Capitol prides themselves on being morally pure. Chaste. Perfect. But the framework of the volatile Districts arranged beneath it knew the truth, and could not say the same.

She sighs and picks at the food on her plate, two drops of a scarlet soup having fallen on top of a pile of seared vegetables. Her stomach, however, disagrees with the richness of the food, and she sets down the fork on her porcelain plate with a tired breath. Her district partner looks no better, his hazel eyes looking downcast and glum. She wonders why she's never seen this boy around the Seam before - they share the same hair and eyes - but she would have had to be blind to miss the lanky frame of the boy. If she had to venture a guess, he would be a little over six foot tall. _A foot taller than me_.

She groans internally and wonders where their mentors have gone. But she supposes that it's been quite the day for them too. Being the first District Reaped, and the last to be televised allows them to get a head start on everyone else. But it doesn't help; Twelve's tributes are notorious for being late. _I guess even the Capitol's trains don't like us_, she muses as she watches the Reapings broadcast on the television mounted on the wall.

The boy, Reynolds, sits with his back facing it. They've been in the train for four hours already, and she _still_ has no idea why he volunteered.

Volunteers are rare, and the boy he saved looks nothing like him. But his last name strikes a chord with her. She has to recognize it from somewhere, surely? She shakes her head. Daniel Iparisu is the smart one. And then she remembers, something she's been numbed out to for the last couple of hours. _My sister is pregnant_. _She's fucking pregnant!_ She sobers up immediately when the thought comes to mind.

What if June's daughter grows up without an aunt? What if she grows up never knowing about her, because everyone else is too broken from the loss to explain to her who's missing from the bedroom behind the kitchen?

The Polaris sisters have always had to work twice as hard as anyone else to make sure ends were met and bellies filled each night. _June had to work the hardest. With me gone and Mom still… unstable, how is she going to get by? _The mayor's eldest son might not even know that the baby is his. Might not know what really happened in the woods, when June came back late with alcohol on her breath and a smile on her face; the first in months. She clutches the locket around her neck and tries to ignore the angry and despairing faces from the tributes on the screen above. Everyone she cares about is pictured in the locket, which hangs suspended by a golden chain just above her breasts.

It's a mask of stoicism she wears now, one she's donned every day since the day her father died. One she doesn't know if she'll be able to live without if she decides to take it off.

_Whenever you're lonely, or you feel like you can't go on_, Mathias had told her, _we are your motivation_.

Her world has split in half more times than she can count on one hand, and yet she feels oddly hopeful watching the Reapings. Though the Hunger Games were mandatory viewing back home, they were admittedly not a priority, but studying the tributes now she realizes just how unprepared the vast majority of them look. Sure, some of them may be taller or better muscled, but there's nothing a few days well spent training can't prepare her for in the arena.

That _is_ what the Training Center is for, after all. Mariela drops her head from the screen after watching her partner volunteer again, her neck surprisingly achy, and meets his gaze. "Why _did _you volunteer?" She asks him, her voice barely a whisper in the rattling room. "Why did you _want_ to be here?"

She flinches as a tide of emotions erupt across his face, snapped back in an instant so that his hazel irises remain solemn. "I'm not sure," he says quietly. "I guess… I guess I just wanted to save someone's life," he tells her. But something's off, and she can tell. Like when June would come home from a night of selling herself at the bars. The boy across the table from her, she decided, was lying to her.

She wasn't going to find out anytime soon, though, as by now both of the mentors and the escort have finally entered the dining carriage, and sit down. "Sorry about the wait," says the older woman. "We'd've sat down to have dinner with you two ages ago, but we've caught news of a new development and needed to adjust accordingly." No further explanation is provided to the pair of them, and Mar sits back down at the table.

Reynolds does not; the boy simply stands with his head about a foot away from the ceiling as if waiting to be dismissed. She hasn't spoken to anyone for hours, certainly not the quiet boy in front of her, so when the adults come filing in, it's nice to finally have someone to speak to. _June… I call it her chameleon. She's able to adapt, to change, to any social situation. Well it's time to do the same_, she thinks, putting on a smile and flashing it at the adults.

"Mr. Pelliarch, Miss Polaris," the escort addresses politely. She's never seen him before - their last escort moved up to District Nine over the break, if she had to guess - but he looks nice enough, and simply dressed. He pushes a hand through long slicked back brown hair and extends the other towards her from across the table. "Romulus, darling," he grins. "You look lovely today! I'm sure that dress cost a fortune."

Now she's positively beaming, and begins to tell him all about the dress and the mayor's son who gave it to her, forgetting about the volunteer boy dressed in all black. She forgets about the tearful exit back in the plush room of the Justice Building with its cold marble and colder goodbyes.

The only thing that can't be erased from her head is the fact that she very well _might be_ dead in a week.

* * *

_Can somebody help me out?_

_I can't find my feet_

_I'm sinking in the deep_

_Can somebody pick me up?_

-Vancouver Sleep Clinic, Lung

* * *

**Reynolds Pelliarch** (**16**), **District 12 Tribute**

Soaked from the rain, Reynolds knocks on the door to the second train, his mop of dark hair tangled on his forehead. Water drips down his brow and into his eyes, hiding the trickle of tears. _I don't want to be here, he thinks_. The other girl had no business asking him.

_I deserve to be here_.

He steps inside quickly, letting the rain pelt the threshold before the soldier at the door closes him off from the outside world. It's relatively silent in here, and only the rain drumming on the metal roof on the train is louder than his own breathing.

It's hard to steady his breathing, but he does. He's close now; he can feel the Capitol getting closer by the way the Peacekeepers stop slouching at their posts. The door is unlocked, and slides back easily, it's chrome framing very modern looking compared to what he's used to back in Terrace's home in the Seam. He wrings out his hair and locks the door from the inside.

_Maybe life isn't for everyone_. But stepping into his bedroom on the train, he knows fully well that there are those entering the Games who will fight to win. Who will fight to stay alive so they can see their families. Their homes. _But not me_.

Reynolds ignores the certainly comfortable looking duvet on the bed and flicks off the lights, plunging the room into semi-darkness. The only visible light comes from the window, the film of condensation streaked by the tracks of the rain. _They didn't really care that I left_, he thinks hopelessly. The loneliness growing in the pit of his stomach hurts him more than anything else can, and for a moment he wishes that Terrace were here. Terrace, with his beautiful brown eyes. Who doesn't judge Reynolds for who he is, or who he might be. His breath hitches whenever he thinks of the boy; thinks of his soft lips and calloused hands.

A sudden surge of disgust for himself rises like bile in the back of his throat. Why would Terrace feel the same way, if he was just a living with the boy in his father's home? He clenches his jaw in frustration. Why would anyone feel the same way? After all, the one person he'd ever told was less than favorable.

_You're no brother of mine_.

He flinches at the thought, and rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands. Worthless. Worthless. _Worthless._ In his heart he knows everyone must think it, when he walks down the crowded and dirty streets of Twelve. _Look, ma, there's the Pelliarch boy_.

How _worthless_ must he have been to live while his family died? Reynolds sinks to the floor, resting his head in the corner where two walls meet. My fault. My fault. _My fault_, Reynolds thinks, pressing his lips together to stop them from twisting into a frown. He cannot stop the lukewarm tears as they leak from the corners of his eyes and drip down his chin.

The Pelliarch family is one shrouded in tragedy, for the death of three of its members was one lesson Twelve was sure to remember. Treason would not go unpunished. It was a lesson Reynolds loathed, as he remembers playing the simplest of games for survival: he and his brother drew straws to see who would live, and who would die. _Maybe if I had drawn the shorter straw, things would be better in the end_, he thinks morosely. _Maybe if Creston had lived instead, he could have made something out of himself_.

Reynolds slowly pushes up his sleeves, exposing a multitude of tiny little scars that trace his forearms, his finger tracing the shiny pink lines which blend into his paling skin. Marks that are fresher leave angry red trails, angry and bold like his ceaseless frustration for the world. _At myself_.

The bathroom light is blazing against eyes grown accustomed to the dark, and Reynolds steps in tentatively, his hand still on the doorknob. The buttons of his sleeves press into his elbows where he's pushed them up in his haste to _feel_. Staring back at him in the mirror is someone he isn't sure if he recognizes anymore. A pair of hollow eyes meet his own, and he turns on the bathroom fan to block out the noise, letting the steady drum of the industrial fan form a heartbeat for the one that he has broken; letting it fill his ears and mind and brain until everything goes blank.

His bony fingers open the sleek, polished drawers, looking for the device that will allow him to feel an _ounce_ of control over himself. He deserves to suffer for keeping his life while the rest of them died. His fingers close around the razor, and pulls the slim handle from the drawer. He smashes it with his elbow, barely flinching as pain shoots up his arm. The razor breaks, and he finds cold metal salvation in the jagged edge of the blade. The fan still drums in his ears, and he braces his forearms against the sink as he unbuttons his shirt and pulls off his undershirt, red in spots where this morning's ritual hasn't fully healed.

He drags the broken blade across his skin, gritting his teeth as his skin parts to make way for the metal intrusion. He lets out a strangled cry, and clenches his jaw, watching the heavy droplets of scarlet blood stain the sides of the porcelain sink.

He draws another line with his steel pen, and the bile rises in the back of his throat. _Disgusting_. Tears threaten to break free from the dam of his eyes as he lifts the pen from its canvas; and he stares down at the blood welling from his skin with contempt in his eyes. _I'm weak_. A soft knocking can be heard from over the monotony of the fan, but he ignores it, his eyes fixed on what he's done to his arm. "I…I deserve it," he whispers to himself, the tears of pain and anger.

Reynolds Pelliarch knows that it should have been him who died at the hands of the firing squad all those years ago. He remembers watching their bodies buckle on screen, remembers the cheering of a bloodthirsty crowd. All they _ever_ wanted was a show, a bloody, bloody show. He looks up at himself in the mirror, with hundreds of ugly little lines etched onto his skin. He will die on television too, and though they'll be delighted to see his blood, it will never be the same way.

He can never make it up to the rest of them, with the bullet holes in their brains. He can never make it up to Mr. Samuels, for taking him in only for him to throw it all away by volunteering.

_But what does it matter?_ He wonders bitterly as the knocking persists on the door. _If I'm dead in a week, none of it will matter anymore_.

The knocking gets louder. _These fucking Peacekeepers won't let up, will they?_ He throws the razor, leaving a red mark on the bathroom wall. He cups his hands and collects water in them to try and swish the crimson streaks out of the sink bowl, and half-succeeds, feeling a little faint as he washes it down the drain. _Weak. You couldn't have saved them anyway._

_They'd hate who you've become_. A sob catches in his throat, and he stumbles out of the bathroom, his fingers fumbling to button his black dress shirt. He pushes his hand onto the switch to silence the fan, and now the knocking is all he can hear.

"Open up, Reynolds!" shouts the voice of a younger male. "You've been in there for half an hour. We want to talk with you a little before we reach the Capitol. Is that alright, or..?" The voice trails off, as if unsure how to finish the question. Reynolds drops his sleeves and uses them to wipe the sticky, half-dried tears from the corners of his eyes. He shakily unlocks the door and plasters a smile on his face. "Hey Werner," he manages not to mumble when he addresses his mentor, sticking out his hand for the formality of a handshake. The nineteen-year-old had become Twelve's second Victor not three years ago, and his age is very much reflected in his voice. But his eyes hold the same seriousness as Reynolds' own.

The Games take a heavy toll on everyone, especially the survivors, for they have to live with what they've seen. What they've done. The older boy searches his eyes, and Reynolds feels revulsed by his sudden lust when he studies the boy's long blond locks and sharp jawline.

Werner Driscoll takes a step into the room and closes the door behind him, breaking contact with Reynolds' gaze. "We need to talk, don't we?" he says softly. Reynolds then realizes that his eyes have dropped to his arm, and the puffy red line half-hidden by his sleeve.

Reynolds shakes his head. "Everything… everything's fine, man. Don't worry yourself for something that doesn't concern you, all right?" He clenches his fists, feeling irrationally angry at his mentor for noticing, when noticing is all that Reynolds has wanted.

His mentor folds his arms and slowly shakes his head. "Tell me the real reason you volunteered, Pelliarch. Because the Games aren't your solution, I can promise you that."

* * *

**Mariela 'Mar' Polaris **(**15**), **District 12 Tribute**

It feels like _forever_ ago that she had last seen anyone she cares about, and wonders just how they're doing back home. _Sure, everyone gets the day off, but how will they feel now that I'm not there? _She rests her head in her hands and asks her mentor a question through her fingers.

"What do you think my odds are?"

Obsidiana Clarke gives her a stern look. "Your odds are the same as everyone else. One out of twenty-four." Mariela opens her lips to speak but the older woman cuts her off. "The Careers have the same odds as you, too. If you think they don't, then you're wont to be right _and_ already as good as dead. The Four boy died in the bloodbath last year, do you remember?" she prompts with a smile that is not unkind.

The fifteen-year-old girl nods slowly. What she's being told isn't _wrong_ but it wasn't the answer she had expected. Suddenly, the escort comes back into the room with a brilliant smile on his face. "We're close!" he shouts, and when he does, the entire train goes black. The windows are dark, and the lights have all shut off. She almost jumps out of her skin, but when the lights turn back on with a flicker and a _pop_, they exit the tunnel. And enter the Capitol.

The city looks dazzling, with it's bright fluorescent lights spilling from the great mass of white-and-gray skyscrapers. The halcyon haze of lights blends into the paling orange sky, the beginnings of sunset lost above the artificial playground beneath it. The city sprawls from the tunnel's edge for as far as she can see, a massive and endless maze of geometric streets and outrageous color which contrasts the stark nature of the buildings. Here and there within all of the revelry, she can spot Peacekeepers in their blanch white uniforms. Somehow they seem less intimidating than the ones at home, as if their holstered guns could cause less pain than a curled leather whip.

"Remember," Romulus grins at the pair of them, despite Reynolds looking glazed over. "They're all watching you." And he's right, there are hundreds of faces crowding around the edge of the train tracks, a thin white line of soldiers keeping them from getting too close. "The Pre-Games parties here are _legendary_," he says wistfully. "They're all just dying to see you all at the parade tonight too," he tells them. Reynolds nods absently, but she looks out the window. There's so much color and movement outside that she's having a hard time keeping track of what's going on in the throng of people.

A slight swell of worry fills the back of her throat, and she turns the locket over in her hand, opening it to gaze at the four faces within. They stare back at her with strangely dead expressions, but seeing their faces again makes her heart swell with hope. Any time her mother sank into the pits of her mental depression, the rest of them were there: Daniel with his facts and plans, Mathias with his joking warmth and offers of help when the days got too rough, who has been her best friend since they met in school. Her mother, struggling to get better and her sister's silent burden. The face she puts on every day, one of stoicism so that she doesn't have to face a broken world with a broken smile.

Mariela knows now that she is _not_ alone, despite certainly feeling it. There are plenty of faces crowding around the train station to peek inside the trains, and she glances over at the boy. He sits with his arms folded, but offers her a smile. "Why don't you look out the windows?" She asks him. "They look so crazy out there… rich and _crazy_," she notes almost breathlessly.

"Because I'm not ready for it," he admits with a small laugh. "They'll be screaming our names, catcalling, everything. And we'll all be dead in a few weeks." To her it seems like he's biting his tongue from saying more, and wonders what he's choosing not to elaborate on. "Don't you think it's strange?" He takes his hands out of his dark jeans pockets and stand with her at the window, glancing out at the riot of Capitolites for the first time.

She nods, her dark curls bouncing around her shoulders. Suddenly the train comes to an abrupt stop, and the crowd outside is distorted into a whirlwind of color. "Yeah, it is strange," she says, bending down to pick up the photo of the Iparis boys, which has fallen from the locket. She picks it up, only to find writing on the back in her best friend's' unmistakeable scrawl.

So that's what he had been trying to tell her in the Justice Building. The paper reads three words that makes her feel very elated: _I love you_.

She may be in a strange new place, but as they're shepherded to the exit of the train by the Peacekeepers, she can finally give them all a genuine smile, knowing that her whole home is hanging comfortably around her neck.

* * *

**DISTRICT FOUR**

* * *

_You say that love is not that easy_

_And that's the lesson that you teach me_

_So hypocritical, overly cynical_

_I'm sick and tired of all your preaching_

-MARINA, Hypocrates

* * *

**Alton Kersey** (**18**), **District 4 Tribute**

The latest Victor of the Hunger Games stands with her back against the wall of the dining alcove, her left hand braced on her hip. "You alright, Alton?" She asks, her eyes searching his face for an answer.

Alton sighs and scratches his head. "I don't know anymore," he murmurs. Put simply, it is the truth. The laughing still rings in his ears long after they've gotten onto one of the Capitol's trains; in fact, he isn't sure if he will ever forget the malice in their eyes as they wished him a false goodbye. Their mocking laughter from the crowd as he stumbles a little on his way up to the stage, his father's breath reeking of alcohol and his siblings barking at him like a dog.

_Your a bitch_. _Be a fucking man, Alton._

"The careers look off to a bad start this year, huh?" He asks his mentor. She folds her arms and shrugs, turning her vacant gaze upon the Reaping Recap. In truth, he can already tell that they're going to be a hard bunch to read. District 1 produces a volunteer who wasn't selected by the Academy.

Nine out of ten times, they're the ones who cause trouble. And it doesn't help that his District partner, sitting on the far end of the carriage looking detached, hasn't been trained a day in her life.

"Don't worry about it," Talisa tells him, a tired smile turning the corners of her lips upward. "The girl from One must have a better reason for volunteering over whoever they selected. For all you know she'll be a better ally too. And don't worry about Siren, I'm sure she can pick things up as you go along." The girl, who Alton suddenly realises is just a year older than him - the same age as Gea - reaches over to the table and lifts a glass of water to her lips. "You remember last year's Pack?" she queries.

"Yeah, of course," says Alton. She doesn't _look_ like Gea, though. His friend with benefits has the same ginger hair and fair skin common in most of District 4. She looks more like Yen. _God, I'm going to miss them,_ he thinks to himself. Regardless of what his father thinks, Alton wouldn't give up his friends for anything. _They're the only thing that keep me goddamn sane._

"Zeke… Zeke got killed in the bloodbath, by a boy from Five, no less. I had to work harder to stick with the Pack." The glow seems to leave her face as she recalls the events that have defined the past year of her life.

"The numbers weren't even, with both pairs from One and Two, and me stuck in the middle. No matter how inconvenient it might seem to have someone like Siren join your group, having someone you can rely on is going to help you down the line. And who knows? Maybe she has some skills she can bring to the table."

Alton nods absently. _I've had to work hard all my life to stay in the running_, he thinks. _This should be a walk in the park if they're anything like my family_. The Recap moves on past their District, and he wishes he could tune out the jeering from his father behind the unmoving line of Peacekeepers. He remembers feeling their iron grips on his arms, dragging him into the Justice Building after the stunt he pulled. _He deserved it_, Alton thinks as he remembers how _satisfying_ it was when the microphone connected with his father's head.

_Serves him right_, Alton thinks, tightening a fist under the table. He wishes his mother were here, so he didn't feel so alone against the world and all the uncertainty it holds in the near future. His mother - with her reassuring smile and the smell of fresh dirt on her palms - is perhaps the only member of his family who doesn't treat Alton like a disappointment.

He grins at Talisa. "You think we can pull off a back-to-back victory?" he muses aloud. _It'd certainly show him just how much of a man I really am_. He reaches for a mug of coffee, knowing fully well that he might need it to energize him for the upcoming parade.

"Maybe," she says, sounding hesitant to agree. _Does she not think I'm able to do it either?_ What feels like a jolt of lightning barrages his ego. _Alton Kersey isn't made for the Hunger Games. That queer can't win anything, he's too weak to pull it off. _He wishes he could shut out the voices of all the cadets at the Academy, of his father, of everyone who tells him that he isn't enough, that he can never _be_ enough.

But he can't. _What if they're right?_ He wishes they'd notice him, wishes they'd see him in a different light. But what reason would his old, drunk dad have to appreciate his failure of a son? Alton wants to bury his head in his hands and never look up again.

But it's too late. _You volunteered yourself for this. You know what you need to prove to them all_, he berates himself. "I think the pair of you can pull it off just fine," says the perky, blue haired escort sitting to his left. "Caspian might not stand a chance helping Siren if he's intoxicated the whole time, poor girl."

The woman shrugs, the motion causing lines to shift in her face. Cassiopeia has been escorting for District 4 for ages. Possibly since Nerida Zale won twenty-five years ago. The woman applies her makeup with a skilled hand, but he can tell the spots where it was too rushed to disguise her age. "Just make sure you don't piss of District One, after what our darling Victor pulled last Games!" the petite woman grins cheerily, taking a large bite out of some sort of confectionary plated in tiers on their dining table.

He can see Talisa grimace, and bites the inside of his cheek from refraining to ask if she's alright. _Men are supposed to be hard. Unfeeling. Untouchable. They don't discuss feelings_.

But the difference is that Alton Kersey _does_. It might be the reason he surrounds himself with the opposite sex in an effort to talk to someone who _understands_ the pressure he has to deal with.

So when his mentor excuses herself from the room and storms off, leaving the slightly confused escort to figure out what she says, he stands up and flashes Cassiopeia a charming smile. He tilts his head back to drain the cup before excusing himself to follow her out of the dining carriage.

Mentor or not, he'll be damned if he doesn't make sure she's okay. So what if showing that he cares makes him look weak? Let the world tell him that at six foot tall he isn't manly enough. He's beginning to realize something as they speed closer and closer to the famed glory of the Capitol.

It's that Alton Kersey is tired of being someone he is not.

* * *

_There was a time when I was alone_

_Nowhere to go and no place to call home_

_My only friend was the man in the moon_

_And even sometimes he would go away, too_

-Ruth B, Lost Boy

* * *

**Siren Thalassa** (**17**), **District 4 Tribute**

_Adapt to survive, if you survive then you thrive. _Siren takes a deep breath and exhales through her nostrils as she sits on the couch, far enough from the action so that she might catch a moment alone.

She supposes it's something she shouldn't have discounted, but life in Four is hard enough if you aren't a rich trainee. It's harder when you're one of the tributes Four reaps on occasion. _It must be a problem with their system_, she thinks. _Why else would Four fail to produce two trained Careers on a consistent basis? _

Granted, there isn't much she can do to improve her current situation apart from managing to win the Games. She groans and runs her fingers through her long ebony hair, wavy and full of volume due to the sea salt. _The sea is calming_, she thinks, remembering years of sitting on the cliffs before the Reapings, staring at the emerald and azure waters laid out beneath her. When she's up that high, with the breeze on her skin and the brine in the air calming her, Panem almost feels real. _Almost_.

It hasn't felt real since the Captain brought her back, not sixteen years ago. She doesn't remember who he is or anything about where she came from; the only life she can remember is spending as much time away as possible from the peering eyes of all the scrawny Community Home kids. _Whispers seem to follow me everywhere_, she thinks scornfully. They even follow her up onto the cliff, where she sings to be free, where the melodious tunes can break her spirit free from the rocks and into the briny winds of the bay down below.

She knows people talk of her too, in the town, despite not knowing exactly who it is who sings up on the rocks late in the night when the moon is the only thing for miles around to watch her. _But its better this way_, she thinks. _The solitude is cleansing, somehow._

It's still surreal that she's on this train, with the boy who's eight inches taller than her five-four, a trained Career no doubt itching to get to the bloodshed. _Like Droplet_, Siren muses. Droplet, who she sent away from the Justice Building as soon as she had arrived. _It's easier to not be sentimental if I'm not coming back_, she surmises morbidly, her mind racing as she begins to imagine all of the macabre scenarios the Games may very well put her into.

Droplet is one of the very few people Siren has let into her life. He works on the docks part-time, and often after their shifts the pair could be found scaling rocks or sitting in sandy coves tracing lines in the sand. She's never felt anything for the Career boy, and knows he's never felt anything romantic for her either, but enjoys his company all the same. _He's someone I can trust_, she thinks, looking over at the tall olive-skinned boy sitting at the dining table. He and his mentor, the Umiko girl, are discussing something, and the girl's eyes flick up and meet hers from across the room.

She gives her a flirty smile, tracing the bottom of her lip with her teeth and raising a suggestive eyebrow. Her face breaks into a grin when the girl looks away, and she stifles laughter as she starts to watch the Reapings from the screen near the couch.

The first set of tributes no doubt has to be a Bimbo and a Knight. The girl looks fair and vain, and the boy, while _looking_ amusing with the red bowtie, looks strong enough to swing a sword and skilled enough to kill with one too. She gives arbitrary labels to everyone out of habit, and the Champion and the Ice Queen, a short yet skilled male tribute and a beautiful but haughty female tribute. The three girl is no doubt a clever Samaritan. The boy looks like a Sociopath. It's harder for her to put a label on her or her district partner, having met him in person, yet Five and Six follow up with determined and steely looking tributes, while the outlier Districts provide several young girls, a dangerous looking six-foot-tall Villain from Ten, and a Nonconformist volunteer boy from Eleven. In fact, the latter districts seem to have a lot of volunteers.

_Idiots_. She's never understood just why the Games were met with such appraisal and applause from the Capitol and their bloodthirsty following. Panem is _such_ a dog eat dog world, but the Games force everyone to normalize the cruelty. Her thoughts are interrupted by a drunken Caspian Irving barrelling through the door and into the carriage. The rain has stopped outside, but his clothes are still damp - from sweat, no doubt - as he stumbles into the room. _He'd be so easy to rob drunk, like the sailors and fishermen back home_, she grins as she watches him brace himself against the rich mahogany-paneled wall.

He burps loudly, eliciting a shrill scream of disapproval from the escort and a hollow laugh from the Umiko girl. The boy, Alton if she remembers right, simply looks on unfazed, but she can tell there's something hiding in his eyes. _Is it fear? Is he afraid of this drunken mess that I'm stuck with?_ she wonders, knowing the only way she'll get an answer is by talking to him.

But Siren Thalassa has decided something for herself. Regardless of how _useless_ her mentor may be, no matter how much the Careers might dislike her presence, she's going to fight tooth and nail to get out of these Games alive.

They might see her as an easy kill due to her lack of proper training, even with Droplet's limited instruction on spearwork for her own self-defense working down with the trawling nets and fish spears. Mr. Castor, her employer, would berate them to get back to work, but she knew that he meant the best for them.

But she's worked too damn hard to carve out her spot in the world, whether it be spotting the trawling boats as they glide back through the undulant waves back to shore or robbing the sailors blind after they've had a drink or two to fill their insatiable bellies. After all, they always found an exotic beauty like her to be someone worth ogling at. _But no matter what life has thrown at me, I've found a way to survive it_, she knows.

She stares out the window and watches as it all turns pitch black outside and the carriage goes still.

_I won't be a victim of circumstance_.

* * *

**Alton Kersey** (**18**), **District 4 Tribute**

"We're finally here!" the escort exclaims in a shrill voice. "Oh is it good to be back somewhere that's rightly civilized!" Oblivious to Caspian's dumbfounded stare, the blue-haired woman stands up and tenses up as though she's ready to fend them all away from the windows. She enlists the help of a Peacekeeper and the two of them silence the riot of color outside by dropping a heavy black cover onto the window.

The room gets darker and stiller with each window that's blacked out, and he begins to feel a little uneasy as the din of the crowd outside begins to fill the carriage. The _Capitol_ is just outside; separated from him by the chrome walls of the train.

He always dreamed of the Capitolites fawning over him, revelling in his victories, showering him with flowers and money. Despite how _broken _Four's Victors seemed to be, the dream of victory was always a grandiose one in his head.

But now that he was just a few feet away from, undoubtedly, raving Capitolites and a camera crew or two, the scenario seems to crumble and grow distant. It's replaced with a feeling of worry in his stomach. For the first time, his District partner has joined him by the table, and he looks into her elegantly slanted jade eyes and becomes annoyed. It looks as though she knows something about him that she shouldn't, and he grips her hand maybe in too tight of a handshake. She winces a little, but doesn't quite show her discomfort.

"Alton Kersey, Victor of the 29th Hunger Games," he tells her, trying to sound stronger than he actually feels.

She stares back at him pensively as the door to their train opens with a hiss and they are revealed to a sea of flashing lights and gaudy colors.

He takes a deep breath, knowing that the cameras are likely rolling again, knowing that his family is likely watching him. His mother, with her fingers crossed and her face full of determination for him. His father with a drunken laugh like his partner's mentor, but with a violent sort of delight in his eyes as he antagonized them. His siblings grinning ear to ear. _They're just waiting for me to die_, he thinks angrily.

_I'll show them differently_, he thinks, raising his chin. He nods to his partner. "You might not be a volunteer," he whispers to her. "But we're going to have to stick together on this one, or the Career Pack is going to kill us, alright?" He looks her in the eyes again, and tries to appear sincere as he says it.

She gives him a simple nod before turning to the crowds, a charming smile on her face. She tosses back her long black hair and grips his hand, prompting him to smile at them too.

He tugs his face into a smile and the Capitolites roar in approval as their recently beloved District Four steps off the train and into the blinding light.

_The twenty-ninth annual Hunger Games has officially begun_.

* * *

**THE CAPITOL**

* * *

**Vivianne Vetura**, **Head Gamemaker**

She sits across from the heavy wooden desk, her knee bouncing in a silent display of nerves. The sunlight filters through the gorgeous set of Palladian windows, burning bright squares onto the smooth surface of the desk. President Ammon stands with his hands folded behind his back as he looks out the window at the City Circle beneath him, the light making his dyed metallic golden hair shine as though someone were scattering a fistful of coins in the sun.

She adjusts the neck of the black turtleneck peeping from just below the red blazer. It may itch her neck a little bit, but it's a fashionable sacrifice she is willing to make in order to survive the seemingly decreasing temperature within the Presidential Mansion.

She stops tapping her leg as President Ammon turns around with a grin on his face. _Unsettling, as usual. Perhaps I just don't like him holding authority over me_. She realizes she's been holding her breath, and exhales from her nose a bit loudly. It's the only sound made in the room, and all else is still. _Or maybe it's because he is unsettling. It's too quiet. Too cold._

"Very pleased you could meet with me again, Vivianne," he addresses her by her first name, a formality she isn't sure she would have let him use if he wasn't her boss. "How are the chariot preparations going?" he asks her, voice as oily as usual.

She sighs, and looks pointedly at the manila folder on his desk. "I was assigned the tributes and the arena. The Gamemaking Team dredged up all the information we could find about them, all condensed into this folder. We can discuss it later if you would like; some of them are rather… interesting." She clears her throat. "But it is Quinn's job to oversee the tribute parade. He _is_ the Master of Ceremonies after all."

"Mr. Valentine has not been scheduling his reports on time as of late, so I had assumed you would have shouldered the responsibilities." He leans in, his face contorting into a dangerous sneer. "Lucky for the both of you, last year proved you were less than competent. I arranged to have the Escorts each assemble a team of stylists for their tributes instead. The chariot preparations themselves were luckily turned in by Mr. Valentine _a week late_." Even his breath is cold against her cheek as he plants a hand on the desk, getting close to her ear. She stares straight ahead, trying to remain composed as his voice takes on a note of fury.

"Your _arenas_ may be brilliant, Vivianne, but your lack of understanding is what bothers me the most. Your job is to organize the biggest event of the year, _every year_. Mr. Valentine does not retain autonomy from either you nor I. He is supposed to operate as a department of yours, and when his duties are left unfilled…"

He trails off, leaving only a dusty silence between the pair of them. She knows what he would have said. He used a ringed finger to draw the manila folder to his side of the desk before he reclines stiffly back in his chair. "The tributes will be arriving tonight. Make sure you and Mr. Valentine see to it that the parade runs _smoothly_, or when the next year rolls around, you may find yourself out of a job."

He drums his fingers sharply against the wood of the desk, his ring glinting in the square of light. "You are dismissed," he tells her, gesturing for the door.

Vivianne Vetura does not need to be told twice.

* * *

**End Note****: Admittedly, I feel as though these four (though detailed!) were a hard bunch for me to write naturally. This might be my least favorite chapter in how I wrote it to be honest. I think I struggled with giving Mariela too much exposition, similar to Axel way back when, but both of their backstories definitely needed to be explained somehow. D4 was just a struggle all across the board. I could have done it better, but anyway! On another note, for all the escorts whose lives did not matter, their costume choices very well may be retribution. Some of you left that part blank… and it might be a little fun for me. Plus, cows.**

**District 4 Team: **

**\- Alton Kersey, male D4 tribute**

**\- Talisa Umiko (his Mentor), 28th Victor**

**\- Siren Thalassa, female D4 tribute**

**\- Caspian Irving (her Mentor), 12th Victor**

**\- Cassiopeia, the Escort**

**District 12 Team:**

**\- Reynolds Pelliarch, male D12 tribute**

**\- Werner Driscoll (his Mentor), 26th Victor**

**\- Mariela Polaris, female D12 tribute**

**\- Obsidiana Clarke (her Mentor), 7th Victor**

**\- Romulus, the Escort**

**There you have the remainder of this **_**wonderful**_ **cast of 24 tributes!**

**Okay so wow, I have finally finished Stage One of this SYOT. All 24 tributes have been introduced, and it is time to move on to the Capitol action! I do have some noteworthy things to talk about in this A/N which may be a little long-winded but moving forward is important to the story, it's tributes, and my writing in general.**

**First off, there will be more dialogue, action and all of that as the tributes interact more. Skimming back, I realize these introductions don't have as much dialogue as I'd like, but I did set up a whole batch of tributes so I guess it's okay, but moving forward hopefully things might look a little more interesting as they all interact with each other.**

**Things were subdued, and now they're spicy! Sponsorship forms will open at the end of Stage Two, and if you haven't read my sponsoring information please make sure to do so as it is not quite traditional. Anyone who is not a submitter but would still like to sponsor can still do so, and earn points accordingly! At the end of this stage, however, I am going to be posting a google form (link: /zsYJZ68ayegfN6vW6) that anyone reading this can fill out. For submitters, it doubles as a mandatory check in, so I know you guys still have interest in my story :)**

**The next chapter will be the great Tribute Parade! It is going to be a **_**beast**_ **to write, as I do plan on having no less than seven tribute POV's, not including one from our Master of Ceremonies. They won't all be during the Parade, however, but they will be selected using a random number generator for fairness (thanks Paradigm for the idea lol). Each tribute will receive exactly two more POV's before the Games officially begin.**

**And as a final note, many thanks to anyone who has stuck around thus far! I'm excited for the future and I GREATLY appreciate all of the feedback. Even just talking to you guys is always nice, yknow! **

**Have a great day/night ! :))**


	11. Chapter 11: the Great Tribute Parade

_Another head hangs lowly_

_Child is slowly taken_

_And the violence causes silence_

_We must be mistaken_

-Bad Wolves, Zombie

* * *

**BEFORE THE PARADE**

* * *

**Mercedes Benson** (**16**), **District 6 Tribute**

She can hear them screaming from the Remake center, and she wishes she could tune them out even if just for a moment. The pressure has begun to build in her chest, a small kettledrum crescendo that has her heart beating faster and faster.

_It's going to be fine. No one cares if you fuck up anymore._ Her hands absently straighten her dark black hair, teasing it into place as she looks in the stylists' mirror, the uncovered lightbulbs that frame it a little too bright on the eyes. _No one cares but you_.

The costume looks ridiculous. A pair of large metal wings are somehow attached to her back, and she's suddenly thankful that she has just about no bodily hair left after the prep team attacked her with tweezers and a razor. If she had any hair, the tight bodysuit would have irritated her skin, but now all she feels is self-conscious of her form. Muscled in the wrong places from helping lift cargo at the aerial hub, not curvy in the places she needs to be.

_My body is just a display for the Capitolites to judge_, she thinks remorsefully, wishing she could just run away from it all. The crowds disagree with her from beyond the building complex of the Remake Center, and it hits her for the first time that the other eleven Districts are in the same building as she is, feeling the same way. _And I haven't seen any of them yet_.

"Who designed this _shit_?" Axel asks angrily to no one in particular. "I can't believe I have to be televised looking like a giant metal -" he's cut off, thankfully, by Axelle's loud shout from the hallway.

She and Axel get up to go see what's the issue, and come face-to-face with a clearly frazzled and _very _out-of-place Gamemaker. Her district partner crosses his arms, scowling at the man as he straightens his papers. "Watch where you're goin'," Axelle mumbles, pushing past him and almost making the poor man drop all of his papers again. "You two look like absolute shit. I told you the stylists _fucking_ sucked," she declares. Mercedes nods in agreement, the huge airplane wings protruding from her back feeling heavy and awkward.

They're dressed in silvery jumpsuits, with airplane wings. _And the aviator goggles just make us look even worse. We might as well jump off a cliff now and pray for the best_, she thinks scathingly. Axel seems to share the same resentment as he tugs at the tight, form-fitting bodysuit.

"Ah don't you two look _amazing_," crows Venus, her eyes lit up. It starts to register with Mercedes that the cotton-candy haired woman is _mocking_ the pair of them. "_I_ was given the liberty of designing your costumes this year," she beams. "And after you guys disrespected me like that in the trains, I knew you both deserved to look ridiculous in front of everyone."

Axel takes a swift step forward as if he were to lunge at the escort and wipe the haughty smile from her face, but Camaro's strong arms restrain him. "Stop being such a hothead," he hisses in the boy's ear. "We had some changes made to her costume, you're going to like it when you're being rolled out."

Mercedes can't help but agree with her mentor. _It's all about how you present yourself. _Like he had told her on the train, the Games can be an opportunity for you to either let yourself go, or find out who you really are. _And right now, Axel is letting himself go._

Maybe it's her maternal instincts from having to look after Uriana any time her girlfriend got upset or intoxicated. _Maybe I just want to help._

Camaro releases Axel and he stalks off to go stand outside in the hallway with its spotless white linoleum floors. The contrast to the haphazard drywall - from recent renovations - makes her question just _who_ in the Capitol would want to do a menial job like redecorating a building that gets used once a year?

She frowns and leans against the wall beside Axel, the wings of the costume pressing uncomfortably in her back. _If he's uncomfortable too, he does a damn good job of not showing it_. "How much does Venus' opinion really matter?" she asks him, searching his dark brown eyes. _It's hard to tell where his irises end and his pupils begin. Creepy._

"It doesn't," he scoffs, folding his arms across his chest. "She doesn't matter to me at all. But she's making us look like _damned_ fools in front of the entire nation!" He scuffs a tall silver boot against the linoleum and she sighs.

"Didn't you hear what Camaro had to tell you?" she asks him. "They made changes. They'll always make changes for us, because they want us to _live_."

He goes quiet for a minute, and she can't tell what he's thinking. Finally, after an elapsed pause, "Allies?" The suggestion takes her by surprise. On the train, this temperamental boy had barely spoken to her save to look her up and down, his judging eyes feeling cold against her back. But it might be nice to have someone to watch her back in the arena, especially given how quickly their tributes died last year.

"Sure thing," she grins back at him. "I'm sure the mentors will be happy; we've got double the chance with each other rather than on our own."

"The mentors don't know jack shit," he pushes himself off the drywall, the wings creating an awkward distance between them. "They're just manufactured in the Capitol, you know," he says with narrowed eyes.

"They're not… they're not _manufactured _by the Capitol, they're real people!" she protests, thinking of how nicely Camaro had treated her.

He shrugs. "Only reason the pair of them are still alive is because they chose to destroy, to kill, to thwart the system so that they could live too," he says with a thin frown. Mercedes' desire to see only the best in everyone is what blinds her to the bitterness that leaks out of his voice as he condemns them, yet his words are not lost on her. "It's just human nature, I guess."

"But wouldn't you kill someone just to save your own life? Wouldn't you do whatever it took to get the hell out of this place?" she asks incredulously.

"Of course I would. I have, and I will. After all, I'm only human too," he gives her a sinister smile and re-enters the room, leaving her all alone in the hall.

In her own thoughts, she is oblivious to the dark shadow that had grown in his eyes, one that would should tell her to run as far away as possible from this boy with his vocal bitterness and jaded accusations.

But Mercedes Benson does the only thing she's ever been able to do: she follows him back into the styling room, believing in the authenticity of his words.

She's always believed in the prettiest of lies.

* * *

**Sebastiana Ridgewood** (**12**), **District 7 Tribute**

Most of the costumes, she will admit, look pretty good. _Most of them_. Seven definitely was spared the wrath of the escorts, as both she and Winston - despite the stunt she pulled on the stage - managed to leave a good impression on both Lysandra and their mentors.

She is dressed like something from a storybook, one of the old ones left untouched by the Capitol's prying hands. Seven kept a lot of them, and she always dreamed of meeting fairies in the woods someday. _But maybe the fairies are among us, and maybe the magic is real,_ she wonders in amazement as she glances around the room. But the only magic she had ever seen was the silver tongues of the Capitol and the speed of their trains and their guns.

_The food they can create, too_, she decides. The array of food set before them on the train was much richer and nicer looking than anything her father could have cooked up at the family restaurant. Her mind wanders back to what she's lost in under a day, and she settles for a frown when she thinks of all her family, sitting at home with the blinds shut tonight, the restaurant lights out and doors firmly locked.

Tonight, the Ridgewood family has no reason to celebrate.

Her district partner, tall and lanky as he is, is dressed as a tree. But in the place of lean lumberyard muscles, beautifully crafted tree bark covers him. In the parts where his joints are, a heavy makeup has been applied to make him look uniform throughout, with the dark browns and blacks offset with lighter hues to give him a three-dimensional appearance.

His crown is her favorite part though, with it's whip thin branches and synthetic green leaves sprouting from every direction out of his hair. He seems to notice the frown plastered on her face and puts a hand on her shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "Come on, Bash!" he consoles her. "Everything'll be just fine, you and me are a team, okay?" _Being on a team with him is just going to make it harder the further we get_, she thinks sadly.

"I guess." Sebastiana shrugs and toes the cement. "Aren't we going to need more people, though? _We_ might not be enough if _they_ try and come after us," she says, jerking her head toward the Careers at the front of the line. The golden-haired boy from One has dismounted from his chariot to speak to the two Careers from District 2 - and by far the toughest looking, in her opinion - but the girl from One remains on her chariot looking straight ahead. Four doesn't move at all.

Winston nods sagely. "What about Eight or Nine? They've got an older guy and a younger girl, just like us. We could ally with one of them and see where it goes?" She mulls it over in her head, trying to recall the Reaping Recap. _Eight guy got mad at the Peacekeepers. Eight girl looked kind of normal. Nine boy was nonchalant. Nine girl volunteered._ She wonders why she did, for a moment. The girl from Nine is close enough to her age, yet despite her love for people even Bash would never volunteer for someone else.

Simply put, the Games are a death sentence, and especially one for any little girls.

"Nine looks all right. Eight's Reaping doesn't sit well with me," she tells him. _Not sure I want to be with a guy that gets angry or the girl who looks that unkempt_. She has a gut feeling that neither of them would be all too keen on an alliance with her and Winston anyway.

The boy next to her shrugs his broad shoulders and steps down from the chariot. She takes one last look at the horses before she follows suit. _They're really pretty with their dappled blonde coats_.

Luckily, Nine's chariot is only a short walk away. "Hey!" calls out Winston in as friendly a voice as he can muster. Two bodies shift toward them, and she has no doubt that Eight is listening to their conversation. "You guys doing all right?"

The boy shrugs, pushing a curl of copper-colored hair out of his eyes. "I'm a cob of _fucking_ corn," he deadpans, looking Winston in the eye.

She sees him press his lips together, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Then suddenly he's bursting out in laughter and so is the other boy from Nine. "I-I'm a _tree_, and you're _corn_!" Winston grabs the side of the chariot to keep himself from doubling over, the fake leaves on his head threatening to shake off. "I'm sorry, it's not funny but it is, you know?" he says breathlessly.

The corn in question can't speak, as he's wiping a tear from his eye. "It's mad isn't it! Everything's all scary and oh God when are we going to bite the bullet but here we are in the worst costumes since the Quarter Quell! What were they thinking!?"

Bash can't suppress her own laughter, and soon she's joined in. Even at age twelve, the absurdity of the situation is just too much to ignore. Out of the corner of her eye she can see a couple tributes looking at them, and a Peacekeeper stiffening his grip on a gun.

But it feels so good to _laugh_ for once. _Since the Reaping, I don't think I've cracked a smile_. A far cry from her normal self, for sure, but feeling the tension lift off her shoulders even if just for a moment is such a relief. She looks up at the Nine girl and gives her a flirty wink. _Her big blue eyes are beautiful_. "I'm Bash," she introduces herself by kissing the malnourished girl on the cheek. Her lips are painted some kind of gold, and Bash wouldn't want to mess that up.

"I'm Arley," the girl looks a bit confused. But with the boys now deep into conversation, she has to find a way to make friends with this girl too. "Why did you volunteer for your sister?" she asks.

"Sissa protects us," she says, puffing out her chest slightly. "I wanted to make sure she can still do that." _Now it's my turn to be confused_, Bash thinks.

"That's really brave of you, Arley," she says. "What's District Nine like?" she strikes up conversation again, choosing not to actively listen as the girl tells her all about the fields and her family. The Nine boy and Winston are shaking hands and grinning at each other, but a Peacekeeper is beelining straight towards them.

Arley goes silent. "We don't like them Peacekeepers back at home," she says. The man directs Winston away from the chariot, and Bash steps away as well. "Me neither," she tells the girl with a grimace, waving goodbye as they are escorted back to their own chariot. There are Peacekeepers herding the One boy away as well. _I like his wings_, she thinks. District One has been dressed as angels, painted with loads of gold and glitter. The wings are much bigger than the thin, papery pink ones on her own back.

Despite the ghost of a laugh on Winston's face, the world comes crashing back to her as the lights all go black and a silence descends upon the twenty-four tributes. _They could probably fly away if they tried._

_I wish I could fly away from this mess too, back to Mom and Dad. Back to Avalynn, Lilas and Saylie_, she thinks. If she could, she would escape from the fate handed to her, but it's a smile that finds its way to her face instead. _Like you used to, Bash. It's only been one day, surely you haven't changed that much!_

As the doors roll open and the cheering reaches her ears, she begins to perk up again. Her wings are too fragile, but her soul is strong enough.

Or so she hopes.

* * *

**Tarquinius Valentine, Master of Ceremonies**

The pair of them stand in the small glass box above the center of the Capitol. He can see his colleague's eyes as she evaluates the tributes on the roster, their tiny black-and-white headshots very sharply detailed. The narrowing of her expression and the tightening of her lips into a smile tells him everything. Somewhere deep within Head Gamemaker Vetura, she must enjoy creating the arenas that make the Capitol scream her name. _She must enjoy killing twenty-three children_.

In his fourteen years as the Master of Ceremonies, three hundred and twenty-two children have died. It's a number that haunts him. _When they're on the stage, everything seems different. It's a show, it's a sham. But you can tell who locks up and who opens up just by the expressions in their eyes. _Eyes, the windows to the soul, are what Tarquinius Valentine remembers them for, because each year when they came back, starting with Sierra Slayte of District Two, you could tell just how much life had been leached out of them.

Even Sierra, with five kills by her blade, had eyes full of remorse and hatred. And it hurts to see them die. _It hurts to see them live, too, with the choices they've made_. But when survival is the only goal in mind, he could never blame tributes for doing whatever it takes to get out of Vivianne's machinations alive.

"District One's outfits don't look bad at all. I thought Pomponius would go overboard with the glitter and gold, but he did a nice job designing them," she tells him, shrugging her shoulders. His eyes scan the roster as well - the same pamphlet held by the thousands of Capitolites who turned up for this grand event - and he wonders briefly which will be the one that he talks to once they've escaped the Games alive.

The clock ticks nearer to the starting time of the tribute parade, with a large holographic timer like the one the Capitol uses for the Games being displayed above the City Circle. _Fifteen minutes before they roll out_. "They aren't bad at all," he says. "Twelve is unusually good looking, but Six, Eight, Nine and Ten look abysmal. Though I suppose Caius would want to humiliate his tributes after what they pulled on the train rides."

His smile is not shared by the Head Gamemaker, who is fitting her arms into the sleeves of a tight black jacket. "I'm going to go to the Headquarters," she tells him. "You'd be welcome to join me sometime if you didn't have to provide commentary for the citizens. It offers the best view of the whole area, I think."

A Peacekeeper peels off the wall and falls into step behind her. He nods in her general direction and turns his attention back to the crystal-clear glass panes of the speaker box, watching the mass of Capitolites as they crowd closer to the City Circle and the long, straight path that leads away from it all towards the Remake Center, where twenty-four sacrificial lambs are being prepared to appease the gods of violence and pain. He can feel his hands get a little shaky, and pulls out the little silver flask from it's pocket in his custom-tailored pastel pink suit.

_Ten minutes until they're rolled out,_ he thinks, beginning to sweat nervously. If the parade goes awry, the only person that the President can blame is the red-haired Master of Ceremonies. _And they only person I can blame is myself_. He unscrews the top, and his fingers get cold as the metal conducts the icy temperature of the liquid within, but he knows his insides will be on fire, the same fire he addresses Panem with in his grandiose, booming voice.

He takes a swig of the liquid courage and grins at himself, checking his reflection in the glass. Being the face of Panem's greatest event requires him to look pristine and put together all the time, and Tarquinius Valentine _always_ delivers.

_Even if I need a little crutch to do it_, he grins as the warmth blooms into his chest as the sharp-tasting vodka is swallowed.

He looks at the massive holograph in the middle of the street as it ticks down from five minutes, then four, then three, the digital numbers blinking down faster than he has a chance to read them aloud in his head.

He wonders for a moment if he feels now the way all three-hundred and thirty six tributes he has interviewed felt as the clock hits sixty seconds, and counts down. He wonders if the twenty-four of them now feel the same way, but he knows that it wouldn't be the same, facing an audience versus facing death.

The numbers hit double zeroes and the holographic light fragments into a solid screen, displaying the cavernous mouth of the Remake Center as its gargantuan metal doors roll open.

The lights become glaring all across the City Circle, and he is temporarily blinded by a flash of white and red, blue and green. A fanfare of trumpets resonates ever so loudly in his eardrums, the heralding of the tributes causing the glass to rattle. It looks magnificent, and as District One's horses emerge from the shadowy womb of the Remake Center he grins, raising the microphone to his lips.

"Starting off the Great Tribute Parade, ladies and gentlemen, we have Crescentia Monroe and Castiel Bomber of District One!" He says into the microphone, his voice sounding smooth and practiced.

The applause is enough to drown out the trumpets, even if for a moment, and he revels in the noise for a moment. _Perhaps the President won't have a reason to be angry with me_, he thinks, watching the golden-haired pair wave their hands enthusiastically, prompting a wave of cheering from the congregation of Capitolites lining the street.

He's blinded by the spotlights as one shifts to pan across the pavement in front of the stark white horses, and loses himself, slipping into his theatrical grace again with the glorious cheering of the crowd roaring inside his head.

_The tributes are finally here_.

* * *

**THE TRIBUTE PARADE**

* * *

**Moses Finch** (**18**), **District 2 Tribute**

The roaring of the crowd in front of them is much greater than the applause he and his District partner, Hela, received for volunteering not even a full day ago. Everything seemed to go so fast, and now he's standing in the chariot in the dark, the stripe of light caused by the gap in the doors the _only_ source of light for the twenty-four of them, all lined up and ready to be marched around like prizes to the Capitolites.

The Anthem of Panem blares through the speakers in the hall, and it's the only thing that fills the world of darkness around him. The darkness is comforting, for no one can see his frown. But the crowd ahead is daunting, and Moses Finch is already gritting his teeth in anticipation of the worst.

The doors slide open, and the light spills in, revealing a horde of bedazzled Capitolites with their brightly colored hair and clothes, like a sea of jewels all trying to outshine each other. He can hear the interviewer's voice as he announces District One, and Castiel and Crescentia roll out onto the runway. The cheering intensifies as they get a good look at their costumes - the pair are angels spray painted gold - but all he can think about is the conversation that the golden-haired boy had with him just moments ago.

His dark blue eyes were like bloodhounds, sniffing out any sign of weakness within Moses and Hela. _We're the Career Pack_, he had told them. _It's up to us to thin this herd of scared little bitches, right?_

_Right_, Moses had told him. But he wouldn't exactly call them scared little bitches, especially given the laughter from behind them, towards the end of the chariot line. _We're the Careers, _he tells himself. But the nagging thought remains that he might not be good enough for the role. He subconsciously flexes his muscles as the boy talks briefly with his district partner, the bulging shapes twisting beneath his dark skin.

Hela is deadly. That much can be said by simply looking at her, but he feels as if there is something behind those eyes, much like all the bruised kids that crawl into the Finch house in the dead of night. _She's missing something_, he thinks to himself. _Castiel too. _

He almost sighed in relief when the boy is herded back to his chariot. So far, his allies seem to have their heads further in the game than he might have imagined. He wonders how District Four will play into this dynamic, or what the narrowing of Hela's eyes at Castiel's back might mean, but by now he's almost given up trying to understand them all. _Understanding someone takes time_. Understanding his growing anxiety is going to take a lot less time, as he counts the seconds from when One's golden angels were released onto the track.

It's a countdown he can compare to the bloodbath timer. _Both are sixty seconds. Both are tense._

_You know how much of a crowd favorite District 2 is_, his mother's voice resonates in his ear from their conversation at breakfast that same morning. He feels a pang of uncertainty in his chest, as if his security is balanced on the point of a knife. _Everything has accelerated so fast_. He takes a deep breath to steady himself. _I always imagined myself in the arena, but never on a stage or in a chariot_.

It seems so much easier, somehow, to drive the steel of a sword through someone's neck than to stand in front of a sea of people. Not for the first time, he wishes the Israel twins were with him. Despite his conflicting emotions for them, it would be nice for them to see the glamour of the Capitol, and nicer for him to have someone he can rely on instead of the complex tributes around him. At home in the rolling hills, everything seemed simpler, the training and the relationships for sure. But with Castiel's calculating gaze and laughing grin, and Hela's sharp wit and quiet indifference, he isn't sure who he is supposed to trust.

He isn't sure if there's anyone he can trust at all. "Your tributes from District 2! Give it up for Moses Finch and Hela Mistlyre!" the Master of Ceremonies' voice booms, and he can feel his heart caught in his throat as the horses trot forward to wheel them onto the track.

The tremendous applause that greets them fills him with a mixture of pride and dread. He holds his head high, grateful that the winged golden helmet is covering most of his face. _Two is a crowd favorite, Moses_, he tells himself, lifting a leaden arm to wave at the masses of men and women on either side. They scream for the pair of them, despite Hela looking imperious beside him, as if it's a great gift for them to receive her attention at all.

She didn't seem as arrogant on the train, but with her head delving straight into strategy once the Recap was finished, he would guess it just didn't show. The two of them definitely have better costumes than some of the ones behind them, such as Three with their black clothes covered in binary code, or the flashing neon of Five's bodysuits. Hela's night-black hair is tied into a braid, pulled tightly in order to emphasize her angular cheekbones and threatening demeanor.

"They love us!" He says as loudly as he can so that she can hear him.

"Of course they love us. They love anything that looks like Victor material, and we don't fail to deliver." Part of him feels like by 'we' she is simply referring to herself, but he looks up at himself displayed on the huge holographic screen ahead and winces. He looks lost in comparison to her, but no one in the Capitol seems to notice. No one seems to care. _Maybe they like my muscles. Or maybe it's just the outfit they gave me_.

Hela, having found out that she had been privately trained by the Academy since she was very young, would never fail to deliver. Moses looks forward, keeping his hand on the curved lip of the chariot as the dark horses begin to speed up. The other, he keeps in the air, waving at the adoring crowd. The interviewer announces District Three, but the crowd seems to be unresponsive, instead devoting their attention to the more interesting Careers in front of them.

He doesn't look back to see how they're taking it. He doesn't look back as Four brings another surge of yelling with their ferocious sea dragon costumes. Instead, he looks ahead, keeping his eyes trained on the Presidential Manor in the near distance. On the monolithic white skyscrapers framing it, on the banners with the Capitol seal, swaying in the stiff breeze. The pressure is building in his chest, an ache he is desperate to escape. _I'm not a frightened boy_, he tells himself. _I'm not a bitch_. _I'm a Career. I'm a Career, a Career, a Career._

Hela drops her hand and turns her stony gaze ahead of them, where they are beginning to slow as they reach the City Circle. The legions of trumpeters and drums are louder here as the masses of cheering Capitolites lessen behind him, fading into white noise that clamors to be louder or more aggressive than the next noise. He counts again, down from sixty, and ignores the screams incited from the audience when the sound of an explosion is made. Ignores the drums that seem to melt into his heartbeat, until the two have merged and he's breathing to the rhythm.

He counts. _One, two, three, four, five_. The world is on fire, in his ears and his eyes. _Six, seven, eight, nine_. Hela is looking at him, her head cocked. _Ten_. "You alright, Finch? You look a little green," she sneers. The verbal sparring between them on the train had apparently carried over here too, amidst all the noise.

"If I look green, you must look like a ghost," he mutters. She throws her head back and barks out a laugh.

"Ghosts are supposed to be scary, though, aren't they?" She grins, her piercing emerald eyes seeming to bore into his skin. "Do I scare you, Moses?"

He isn't sure how to comment. Her demeanor exudes an aura that she should be feared. Respected. But it feels forced, as if she's trying to intimidate him.

He looks her dead in the eye. "You don't scare me, no," he tells her. "You boil it down to the wire and you're eighteen years old, just like me. You have one shot to go home to whatever glorious life you live, and I've got one shot too. Whatever kind of training you have, puts you in the same boat as the rest of us."

He cuts off the beginning of a very indignant sentence. "I don't know you. They wouldn't let us train together, remember? But that puts us in the same boat as One, unless Crescentia is the selected volunteer. It puts us in the same boat as Four, since _no one_ volunteered for Siren. But I know you and I need to watch out if we want to get through this alive."

"_You_ need to watch out if you want to get through this alive," she retorts. "Because when it _boils down to it_, you're going to be just another nameless shit who goes home in a fancy coffin. How do you like _that_, Finch?"

He doesn't. But her eyes have told him more than she ever could. Something changed within her when he told her she had one shot to go home. Something pissed her off, and he's getting the feeling that Hela Mistlyre is a wire wrapped too tightly.

The trumpets blare even louder and he steadies himself, his knuckles taut on the chariot side. Their horse comes to a stop and the trumpets let out a single thunderous peal before falling silent.

The crowd falls silent, too, eagerly awaiting the President's speech as he stands above the twelve tiny chariots and their twenty-four victims. _Victims who wouldn't be standing here if Uncle Peter had succeeded, if the rebellion had succeeded twenty-nine years ago. _The President wouldn't be giving the same speech about how the twenty-four of them should be grateful to be shipped off into the war zones of this world.

Oddly enough, Moses is _grateful_ that his Uncle failed. The Games are an opportunity - an outlet - to relieve the mountainous burden upon his broad shoulders. _An outlet for me to prove myself. To prove to myself that I'm fine the way I am. Fine with who I am._

_Let the Games begin_, he thinks. _I'm going to be ready_.

* * *

**Sorrel Nettleson** (**15**), **District 5 Tribute**

"How are you not nervous?" Nyx whispers sharply.

He shrugs. "It's not that big of a deal," he counters. "It's no different than walking down the street at home." He thinks for a moment. "Or running," he adds, glueing his eyes on the chariot in front of them, so he is not distracted by her looking at him.

The shouting and the cheering of the crowd doesn't faze him. Instead he stares ahead like he's done this a million times, and smiles to the audience and waves methodically, turning to face both sides of the crowd with a practiced hand. After about the first three minutes, the event became almost boring, yet he keeps his hand up out of a sense of obligation to his mentors to get sponsors.

For Nyxandrea, on the other hand, the parade is clearly a sensory overload. He slyly looks over at his partner, noting her blushing face and aversion of the crowd. She stares off to some focal point which does not exist, trying to console herself as the world riots around her. "You got this, Nyx," he can hear her whisper to herself, the words said under her breath almost lost beneath the crowd which cheers for the tributes as they roll out.

Their cheers intensify as the gorgeous and muscled tributes from District 4 - notorious Careers - pass by, and the boy tribute rips off the front of his costume to reveal olive skin stretched taut over his chiselled abs. The crowd eats up his sudden confidence, and hundreds of tiny blue sea dragon scales scatter to the ground for their wheels to crush. The girl stands beside him, looking amused at the display, as he raises his hands to try and incite the favor of the crowd.

_And it works_. The same applause that erupted for Districts 1 and 2 greets their ears, but is quickly overshadowed by the chariot behind them. Even the night-black stallions pulling Six's chariot are a little startled when fireworks burst forth from the formerly goofy-looking airplane wings of the Sixes' costumes. The mass of jewel-bright citizens erupt into a frenzy of applause and screaming, the names of the two tributes filling Sorrel's ears.

"District Six, bringing out _fireworks_ from their wings! What a way to make an entrance!" the voice of the Master of Ceremonies says through some kind of amplified microphone.

If looks could kill, the boy would have no doubt killed half of the frivolous onlookers as the trails of smoke and dazzling silver light explode around his head. Despite the amazing reaction, his eyes remain narrowed and set in a glare while his smile is just a little too feral. In contrast, his partner seems overjoyed at the fireworks, her chin tilted toward the holographic screen above to stare at the ostentatious display.

The neon lines of power tracing their reflective black bodysuits light them up like little beacons, yet he can feel Four and Six drawing their eyes away from the pair of them. _We're going to be overlooked,_ he thinks. Everything in his body is screaming alongside the thousands of spectators of the parade, and he stiffens as he remembers what the escort had told the pair of them back on the train: _leaving a strong, confident impression would often win favor among the Capitol_.

He thinks for a split second, and as the smoke trails and flashes of silver light rain down upon he and Nyx, he makes a hasty decision. He reaches out and grabs her hand, the delicate fingers embraced in his own. She stops stammering phrases of encouragement to herself and looks up, fresh green orbs meeting his own brown ones. He leans in and cups her face with his hand, her skin smooth to the touch yet hot from embarrassment. "Wha-?" she's cut off when he takes advantage of her parted lips to bring her in for a kiss.

Her lips are hot with her feverish anxiety, and yet he can taste a sense of freedom on her lips, even her flightiness and adrenaline from the rush of the night's event, no matter how suppressed by her worry. It's a mouth he's been wanting to explore for years, ever since that afternoon when he had joined her in the Nexus living room with her brother Solander at his side. Years spent watching, keeping his distance to ensure his façade of professionalism was not to be broken by the feelings of desire he did not have a name for. The haziness of the changing neon lights, now an orange color, blend with her hair to catch aflame against the stark black night sky.

She is receptive, despite a little clumsy, and caves into the kiss without warning, her breath audibly hitching as he bites her lip a little, her breath that he can hear despite the increased volume of the wall of people around them. Small flowers sail through the air, the red petals and firework smoke and the fanfare of trumpets all melting away as she melts into him like the hopeless romantic he knows her to be. _The more scandalous, the better_, he smirks against her lips as he draws away from her.

Whatever blush she carried in her round cheeks has been tripled, and now she's absolutely redder than a tomato. Her ears are burning, and he can tell she's even more embarrassed as the crowd lets out a collective scream for the pair of them.

"Sorrel! Nyx! Sorrel! Nyx!" their cries for Four and Six drown away if only for a moment as the spotlight burns on the pair of them.

As their horses keep a decent pace, pulling the chariot along the street lined with glitter and gold, he realizes that he's done something he never would have expected to. All his life, Sorrel has been mature and controlled and calm. _But it feels better to be spontaneous, _he considers, _it feels better to live like this in the moment_. He wonders, too, what his mother must think as he's projected nationwide.

He's lost the mask they shared, even if just for a moment. It's lost, and the boy without emotions cracks her a genuine smile as they pull closer to the City Circle. He knows it will come back, as it always does, but as Nyx stands with her ears burning in confusion beside him, he wonders what it would be like to show his emotions as plainly as she does.

For Sorrel, the worst may seem to be behind him. He schools his face into neutrality once more as they arrive at the City Circle and the trumpets and music end with a flourish. He blinks as he feels one of his eyes begin to tic a little, and places an impassive smile on his face as he glances around at all the other tributes all staring up at the balcony, where the President stands with his hands gripping the railing.

But in truth, the worst is what lies ahead.

* * *

**Arley Harva** (**12**), **District 9 Tribute**

"Twenty nine years ago, in the Dark Days, a rebellion was mounted against the Capitol," the President begins his speech. "Thirteen Districts rose up in an insurgency against the hand that fed them, and thirteen perpetrators of the law were destroyed. Twelve signed a treaty to assimilate back into our embrace. One did not, and as a result, District Thirteen was demolished. Let the next few weeks serve as a continued reminder that the foundation of our strong nation shall not be broken," he tells the hundreds of little cameras with their black lenses pointed at him.

"Rebellion against the Capitol shall not be tolerated within the confines of Panem. Twenty-four of your children are to participate in the greatest pageant in the history of our nation: the Hunger Games."

A chill runs down Arley's spine as she stands in her chariot, her thin arms prickled up and down with goosebumps. _The Hunger Games_. It's beginning to occur to her just what she has thrown herself into. _That death might be just around the corner_.

Every year, Arya had told her the same, that it wouldn't be someone they knew. That it wouldn't be her. _But this year it was Sissa. And now it's me_, she bites her lip hard, and tastes blood. It is metallic, like the copper crown she wears on her head. _But the crowd did not cheer for a queen like me_.

The latter Districts never received much applause.

She had peeked behind her to see District Ten both dressed as cows, in suits that looked hot and heavy to be wearing. Both of them stared straight ahead, and Arley didn't like how angry they both looked. But despite the slump of cheering after Six's fireworks detonated, it picked up again with Eleven and Twelve.

The boy from Eleven scared her almost as much as some of the Careers. He looked _dangerous_, like the tributes from Ten, and with his grim smile at the beginning and the cockiness in his hollering at the crowd toward the end, getting them riled up for him.

_Make that nine people I want to steer clear from. _

Arley sighs and wishes she could take this scratchy grain dress off and put her real one back on. _Why would they make it so uncomfortable if they have access to the best textiles?_ Unfortunately, she doesn't have an answer and doubts that Padds would either, as uncomfortable as he looks being a corn on the cob.

The pair of them had gotten along pretty well on the trains, and the food was much more than anything she or the rest of the Harva family got back at home. The Capitol is scary, but at least they're hospitable and excited to see her. She grins as she remembers the delight of the stylists as they poked and prodded at her, making her look pretty for all the other Capitolites. _Everything is so bright and colorful_.

The President wraps up his lengthy speech, and applause is solicited from the thousands of citizens assembled below, cheering louder than they had even for the Careers. She had watched them on the screen above, as they all waved and pumped their fists. The Four boy had ripped off part of his suit, which made some of the onlookers go crazy, and the One girl had caught not one but _two_ flowers from the air.

Not to say that Five or Six didn't make a splash either. Nor Twelve, who brought up the rear. Their costumes were better than usual this year, but of course she and Padds still had to look terrible despite nothing but politeness for their escort, Festus.

The roaring subsides and the jaunty music picks back up again. The President turns on his heel and walks back into the mansion, three Peacekeepers following his back and closing the ornate doors behind him. Arley is glad she won't have to see much of him in the next week or so: the man gives her scarier vibes than anyone entering the Games with her.

Twelve chariots are then turned toward an opposite arm branching from the City Circle, and as they exit she hears an unnervingly high-pitched cackle from two chariots behind her. She knows that it comes from the boy dressed as a scarecrow, and flinches. The thought of being sent into an arena with all of these terrifying strangers is making her nervous. She looks up at Padds and his _stupid_ corn outfit. He gives her a little smile. "Don't pay attention to the scary ones," he tells her. "We've got ourselves a little alliance going on and it's going to be okay."

"I guess you're right, Padds," she tells him. His name still feels awful on her tongue, but is objectively much better than 'Filip'. The thought of allies - not friends, but allies - admittedly makes her feel a bit better looking at how she stacks up against these older tributes. Maybe they can help her get through the Games, and she can outlast everyone and get home to Sissa.

_Home_. It's the first time she's really thought about it, despite the revelry around her. She's been so wrapped up in everything that she hasn't had a mind to think about how her family must be doing. _Surely they're fine, Sissa will take good care of them._

She wonders too who Padds has waiting back home for him. He didn't talk about much apart from his friends, but surely someone is eagerly waiting for him to walk back through the front door. Again, she finds that she doesn't have an answer, and wishes that she knew one. "Let's get some sleep then," he tells her, keeping his eyes glued on the back of the chariot in front of them as the noise fades away behind them. "Tomorrow is bound to be a bit of a rough day, with all of us in one building. Let's make sure to find Winston and Sebastiana, okay?"

She nods. "I think she prefers 'Bash', kind of like you prefer 'Padds'. I didn't get to talk to her a lot but she seems really nice. Maybe we can ask her tomorrow!"

Her partner nods, at a loss for words as their chariot passes under the arch leading into the lower section of the Training Center, where they will be housed for the next several days. The walls are dark around her, and she inhales deeply. _Tomorrow, when I wake up, am I going to feel the same as I do today?_

_I have allies. I have hope. But will they be enough to get me home?_

All are yet again questions that Arley Harva is incapable of answering; her future remains painfully unclear. But she decides in that moment that she will have to do something to make it clearer.

She will have to try and win.

* * *

**AFTER THE PARADE**

* * *

**Darnius Paisley** (**16**), **District 8 Tribute**

_I've never been more humiliated in my life. Why did Augustus think it was a good idea to dress us like that?_ Darnius signs and tries to squeeze through the bathroom door so he can strip his costume off and try to forget that the entire nation saw him wearing it.

They dressed him as a pincushion. He's certain that his father is laughing himself silly in his cups, laughing at this _disappointment _of a son. Darnius sighs and braces his hands against the smooth marble sink of their apartment. The apartment is a rabbit's warren of rooms and small hallways, a massive living room and kitchen - likely the size of the Paisley residence back home - connecting no less than five bedrooms and bathrooms, one for each member of Eight's team. _And an empty one to remind Twyla of her failures_.

_You've got real grit_, she told the pair of them. _Maybe next year one of us will occupy that room_, he thinks sourly. His olive complexion looks sickly under the strange fluorescent lighting. He looks _tired_, and it's been only a single day since his name was called from Augustus' painted lips.

He pulls the pins from the bright red body piece until he looks like a giant tomato, then lifts it from his shoulders, struggling to get it off his head. Once he finally does, he groans and discards it in the corner with a careless toss. Out of the pair of them, with Halley's bright eyes and rosy cheeks, he would have to say that she enjoyed the parade much more than he ever could have. With the pair of them dressed as a pincushion and a bundle of ribbons, Eight no doubt had the worst costumes of the year, but Halley's wide-eyed grin and plain enthusiasm for the vibrant charade must've had the Capitol wrapped around her fucking finger. _And what must I have looked like to them?_

Even the final two Districts had fared much better, with a scarecrow and a bunch of grapes for Eleven, and the volunteer boy from Twelve dressed as a smoldering furnace, the girl a lit coal with the flames dancing around her face. _They had a smoke machine!_ He rubs his eyes in frustration. _I wonder what Arya thinks of it all_, he finds himself wondering. His hand reaches for the folded paper in his pocket, her poem about death scrawled in hasty letters. His _very _literate girlfriend would likely laugh at his mood and wrap her arms around his neck, the smell of petrichor and smoke in the air after it rained and they sat on the rooftops, watching the bustling world beneath them. _If I could be the king for a day, I'd spend it just like that, with her by my side_.

They had spent countless hours balanced on the worn shingles, talking and playing at kissing late into the evening, until he had realized just how strongly he felt for her. Even Weaver noticed the bond between them, and Darnius had been more than happy to oblige in giving up a piece of his own sovereignty for those moments with the Winchester's daughter. _Her old man will probably never know I existed_, he thinks.

For the better; the Head Peacekeeper likely wouldn't take it well if he discovered his daughter with someone like him. He sighs and tugs on a gray shirt, his hand grazing his chest. The dark brown hairs are sparse and just beginning to sprout from his skin, and it's with great regret that he might not see them all fill in. _Be a man, Darnius._

He breathes hard and rolls his shoulders before stepping out of the bathroom, leaving the costume behind like a carcass on the floor. He needs to talk to someone to distract himself from thinking about home. Halley is the only one he can find, sitting at the dining table alone. "Hey," he says, bracing a forearm against the corridor wall that connects his apartment to the main room. "You seemed to enjoy yourself out there!"

She nods, her excitable face looking as tired as he feels. "It _was_ really fun. But do you think we got any sponsors?" she asks aloud.

"I'm not sure," he runs a hand through his messy brown hair. "We kind of got cheated on in the costume department, so it's hard to tell if they took us seriously."

Halley frowns. "I like mine," she tells him, picking at one of the ribbons. "I bet Old Man Clyde would think it was ridiculous, but it's a nice change of pace from what I'm normally getting to wear back in Eight." She grimaces. "Even if some of the colors are a little _too_ bright." Darnius rolls his eyes. _Why would she defend the costumes Augustus picked!? They're horrible!_

"Why the hell do you talk about this 'Old Man Clyde'?" he asks the girl instead. "Doesn't sound like anything I'd choose to call a grandparent, but you do you."

She looks up sharply. "He isn't my grandfather," she informs him with a steely look in her eye. "He's just a friend of mine."

Darnius almost laughs, but cuts himself off. "Can you not make friends your own age?" he asks her, hating the belligerent tone in his voice. _I think I've upset her_. He isn't sure if that was his intention, anymore, if his bad mood following the parade should soil her good one just for the sake of a meaningless argument.

But Halley Verron clearly refuses to put up with the game he is trying to box her into. _Shouldn't have opened that can of worms._

She lunges forward faster than he anticipated, vaulting _over_ the dining table and knocking a glass to the tiled floor. All within a split second, he can see it shatter against the cold ground. He can see her bared teeth and the angry shine in her eyes. The little glass crystals spilling across the floor to his feet.

He swings at her with an open palm, ready to slap the daylights out of this girl. He connects with the flat of her back in a clumsy slap, nothing like what he had intended, and he feels a bolt of lightning shoot up the side of his face. His district partner, ribbons and all, had ducked under his arm and socked him in the jaw. His jaw stings from the impact of her sharp knuckles, and he hisses between his teeth in pain. "What the _fuck_?" he asks her incredulously.

Halley looks him dead in the eyes, her own blazing in defiance like miniature suns. "Don't _fucking_ test me, Darnius!" she shouts, her voice reverberating through the empty living room. To her credit, she doesn't back up as he towers over her - being over a foot taller - but instead clenches her fists at her sides. Gone is the girl who threw up in front of him on the train.

_The pair of you has real grit_. A grin spreads across his face as he exhales his pent-up breath.

_Maybe we do_, he thinks as she storms off into her rooms, leaving him with the phantom feel of her fist against his chin. _Maybe I've got a shot at this_, he reckons as he fills up another glass with water, not bothering to clean up the mess on the floor.

_Maybe I can go home to her_.

* * *

**Castiel Bomber** (**18**), **District 1 Tribute**

The cheering still rings in his ears long after the parade is over, and he and Crescentia are the first two off their chariots and into the lobby of the Training Center. He's _itching_ to scrub the spray paint from his skin. _It's like a skin prison_, he thinks.

Despite his initial distrust of the girl at his side - for volunteering over Nike, who he had trained with for a little under a year - the girl had begun to grow on him. He still has his doubts as to just how good of a partner she will be in Nike's stead, but that question can be answered tomorrow when the five of them get to test whatever weapons the Capitol provides them.

Moses and Hela finally make it through the lobby, and begin walking over to join them. The Fives cross paths with them, and stop abruptly to let them go before heading off to the elevators. The girl's face is bright red and it sounds like she's trying to get the guy to explain something to her.

The beginning of our almighty Career Pack, he thinks bitterly. _Perfection and uniformity_, the mantra he mutters under his breath, over and over. Everything is going to work out smoothly, and Aurelia Dior is going to have a Victor in the back of her pocket once everything is through. _Take leadership of the Careers, or you're going to get lost in the fray_, he remembers her telling him on the train. _If you do the directing right, there's no one who can cut you for a bad performance_.

"Perfection is just a beautiful wish... for people who've missed their call to reality," the golden-haired girl says sagely from beside him. He looks up, a little surprised that she had heard him muttering under his breath.

He gives her a pointed look as the pair from Two joins them. Moses has herculean frame despite his height, and Hela is lithe but well built. Alton is hot on their heels, with shimmering blue scales still falling off his costume to leave a glittery trail behind him.

"So this is our Pack this year," he finally addresses them all. _Not too bad of a group, if you ask me_.

"Well, plus Siren?" Alton looks a little confused as his eyes sweep the lobby looking for her.

"I don't think Siren is joining us," Crescentia says with a shrug. "I don't blame her, we're all trained and she isn't. It's got to be a little daunting for her."

Alton sighs. "There's strength in numbers too, you guys know that. We're better off with six than five, I think."

"You can ask her tomorrow," Moses inputs with a shrug, looking at the other boy. Unless Castiel is mistaken, he can see the Two boy's eyes lingering along the rigidity of the Alton's toned abs, still exposed where the sea dragon scales hang loosely around his torso. _Looks like he didn't just get a crowd response by ripping half his costume off_.

Alton shrugs and the group walks toward the elevators. The doors *_ding*_ open and they all stand still for a moment. Crescentia laughs as the pair from Six get on the elevator next to theirs. "I guess we've never really seen a whole lot of these before, even in One."

"Whose floor are we going to?" Hela asks. "I'd offer ours, but I've got the feeling that Porphyria is going to try and tell us what strategies we should have." She rolls her eyes sarcastically and Moses lets out a good-natured chuckle. _I guess their escort was fun to deal with_, he thinks. _Pomponius just told us he already has sponsors lined up and waiting, even with my joke about his hands._

He gives Hela a cheeky smile. "We've got better strategy than her no doubt. She'd probably just tell us to sit around and wait for the rest of them to die while the Capitol supplies us with bread. I'm gonna be _so_ sick of bread." The halfhearted nose exhales are drowned out when, to his surprise, the elevator doors *ding* open again, and he sees the little light with a '1' emblazoned on it go dark.

"I doubt they'll be here," Crescentia says, walking briskly past him. "Too famous to be retiring this early." They stand out on the tiny landing, barely enough to fit all five of them, and Castiel tries the door handle.

"It's locked," says Alton from the back.

"Nice observation, Captain Obvious," Hela snorts, a snide laugh coming from the back of her throat.

But the door swings open, and he catches a glimpse of a woman dressed in all black, a golden plate covering her mouth. _An Avox_. He shudders, and leads the group into the well lit living room, with a huge ornate gold chandelier in the center, hanging over a smooth glass table that seems to rise from the floor.

The five of them get settled in, and Moses takes his helmet off and plunks it onto the table. Alton takes off his headdress too, letting his hair hang in his face.

With the mentors and escorts gone, Castiel notes that the liquor cabinet should be free to their use. He beckons Moses to join him up at the counter, and uses slender fingers to draw a bottle of vodka out of the glass cabinet. The muscular boy beside him gingerly sets five glasses on the marbled countertop.

"What do you guys want to mix it with?" He asks the group. _If I can get them spiked up and talking, all the better for me_. He smirks inwardly.

"I'll just drink it straight up," Crescentia suggests, surprising him yet again with her boldness. He pours her half a glass, and takes some maraschino cherries out of the fridge, dumping the sweet nectar into his own glass. _It's a motion well-practiced_. Ever since Charming had died, he had gotten acquainted with the liquor cabinet for a few months before he discovered the magic of a lengthy morning run.

_But it doesn't hurt to have one too_, he thinks, downing it with a grimace. The others are in various states of drinking, with both Moses and Alton side-by-side looking a little uncomfortable. Hela downs it in one go and says nothing as she sets her glass back on the table with a faint smile.

"So clearly we've got a good group," Moses says, his eyes still trained on Alton. "But we're going to have to have a direction for what we're doing."

Hela nods. "We can't just go out and expect everyone to be an easy kill. Some of the others have more grit then we do, even with a _lack_ of training."

"Why don't we elect a leader?" Castiel grins. "I vote myself," he says with an exaggerated bow. "As my first decree, we get rid of the boy from Seven. Maybe it was just the tree thing, but he looks pretty strong, an-"

"I don't care to take orders from a pretty boy with a secret vendetta," Hela snaps, cutting him off. "I deserve leadership for a multitude of reasons more than you." Her emerald eyes are darkened, and Castiel meets them from across the table with a similarly narrowed expression.

"And why the _hell_ is that?" he asks her, his jovial tone disappearing for a split second as he slams the bottle down on the table, rattling his glass. Moses flinches beside him, and he makes a mental note that the boy might not be as proficient with conflicts as he first thought. Crescentia has gone silent, preferring to not join in the conflict either.

Hela draws herself up, standing at her tallest. "I've trained for _years_ on end. I _live_ in the Academy, and I've put more effort into this than any of you combined. I've worked my ass off for this spot, and I'm not about to give it up just so you can run us to the ground with your jokes and scheming."

"Well," says Crescentia tentatively, finally breaking the tension. "We could have a vote, seeing as there are five of us we wouldn't have to have a tie." _I've got to commend her on her social skills sometime_, he thinks as Hela's face slackens in his peripheral vision.

"Shouldn't we wait for Siren before we decide anything?" Alton questions. _Give it up already_, Castiel thinks, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"No, it's fine," Castiel says, looking at his District partner. "Crescentia?" he asks, his voice dripping with pressure. If she takes the hint, he doesn't know, as she coolly nods. "I vote Castiel."

Alton shrugs. "Me too, you seem to know what you're doing." _Good. Maybe Four won't stab us in the back like they did last year_.

Moses shrugs and finishes his drink. "Doesn't really matter at this point," he grimaces. "You already have a majority." _But would he vote for me?_ Castiel wonders.

"Well I guess that's decided," he grins, the anger fading from his face. _What a relief_.

Hela snorts and whirls around, marching out the room and throwing insults his way after she's long gone and slammed the door behind her. Moses seems to stand frozen for a minute before flashing them an apologetic smile. He runs up the shallow stairs and chases her out of the room, leaving the door wide open to the pitch-black hallway just outside.

Even a tigress can be tamed, he smirks. _But for how long will she listen to me before the claws go for my throat?_ Castiel rinses his glass in the sink, and puts on his brightest grin as he turns to face the remainder of them. "Well, I'll see you guys tomorrow," he dismisses the boy from Four.

"It's gonna be fun getting to show off our skills," he says with a wink. _It's going to be fun getting to see what I'm stacked up against_.

Oh yes, the Games are going to be fun for Castiel Bomber indeed.

* * *

**End Note****: As usual this chapter took me too long to finish (it was 10K *cough cough*), but it feels good actually making it past the "introductions" stage. Some stuff caught up to me, most noticeably losing my job because my employers decided to permanently close the doors. It's been a bit rough, and so is this chapter. Clearly this is going to progressively harder (though more exciting) to write.**

**Shoutout to Vixen/SetFires for the 1 and 4 costumes! I feel like I did some of these kiddos dirty with the costumes lmao. I took some creative liberties with some of these moments, most notably the kiss between Sorrel and Nyx. Can't wait to see how she handles that. I hope you all liked this new look at some of our tributes, I feel like I didn't do them justice, but it was fun anyway. New alliances were made in this chapter (and in the train rides), and I will keep a list in the end notes:**

_**Career Pack**_**: Castiel (D1M), Crescentia (D1F), Moses (D2M), Hela (D2F), Alton (D4M)**

_**One-Sided Lovers**_**: Sorrel (D5M), 'Nyx' (D5F)**

_**Planes, Trains and Automobiles**_**: Axel (D6M), Mercedes (D6F)**

_**Teens & Beans**_**: Winston (D7M), 'Bash' (D7F), 'Padds' (D9M), Arley (D9F)**

_**Loners (for now!)**_**: Edward (D3M), Brita (D3F), Siren (D4F), Darnius (D8M), Halley (D8F), Ruben (D10M), 'Evie' (D10F), 'Wolfchild' (D11M), Tangaria (D11F), Reynolds (D12M), Mariela (D12F)**

**As usual, I do LOVE getting feedback from you guys and appreciate any support you throw my way. Reviews or PMs mean a lot to me because I get to hear your opinions on things! What do you think of everything that's happening?**

**Next chapter will be Training Day 1, with six POVs so hopefully less of a challenge. I'll probably update my profile too. Sorry for the inconsistency in my update schedule, but I'm still here, I guess!**

**Have a great day/night! :))**


	12. Chapter 12: Fake It 'Til You Make It

_Take a look in the mirror...what do you see?_

_Do you see it clearer,_

_or are you deceived_

_In what you believe? _

-Rag'N'Bone Man, Human

* * *

**TRAINING CENTER {DAY 1}**

* * *

**Edward Nelson **(**12**), **District 3 Tribute**

The euphoric high from last night still hasn't quite worn off, and twelve-year-old Edward Nelson is practically jumping up and down in his seat at breakfast.

His district partner, Brita, rolls her eyes at him. It isn't the first time she's done so, but he pretends not to notice her frustration. _Not everyone can be excited as I am_, he thinks with a grin as they finish up their food. An Avox comes to take their plates, and Edward reluctantly relinquishes the bits of scrambled egg left to the silent servant with the golden mask.

The parade was _awesome_. There were so many cheering Capitolites, with their crazy colored wigs and clothes - some of which were crazier than the purple wig that Bellina is wearing today - and Edward felt _alive_ with them all screaming at him. _The show is on._

"So, are you two nervous for today?" the escort asks them, adjusting her purple curls. Their mentors are likely still asleep, or out somewhere. _Oh well_, he thinks. _It's not like they really had advice worth listening to anyway_. His own father knows more about the Games than the pair of them anyway, being one of the engineers for the yearly muttations. _Some years have tons of them, some have none. _

_I overheard Dad on the phone talking about something big in store for this year_, his mind races, wondering just what Dad helped cook up. He wonders if Brita felt the same way before her parents died, being the daughter of the notorious Edison treachery. He shakes his head and finishes his orange juice, the sweetly acidic drink lingering in the back if his throat.

"Kind of," says the redheaded girl next to him. "Do you think the Careers will try and hide the weapons from us?" she asks the other woman. Last year, as a joke, the Careers hid the weapons from the other tributes before training began. It didn't end well, from what he heard Mr. Valentine asking them during the interviews. Of course, nothing within the Training Center is televised, but the prospect of meeting the Master of Ceremonies is an exciting one.

"I doubt it," the woman says, her perfectly aligned teeth making a rare appearance. "I think you'll be fine, dear. Just remember, the both of you: knowing how to fight isn't necessarily the only skill you should pick up. There's plenty more out there."

Brita nods solemnly. "I don't want to die to some kind of plant either. That would be _so_ embarrassing."

It's the first time he can agree with her on anything. _It would be so embarrassing. Death by plant, what a great way to go down._ "Me neither," he adds as an afterthought to their conversation. The Avox has cleared their dining table from plates, and Edward pushes back the chair from the table, which looks like a curved sheet of glass. _Even the styles look so cool here_, he thinks, gazing about the room with it's hard edges and clean colors. _Cutting edge in everything! It really puts our house to shame_, he thinks in awe.

"Oh, _shit_," their escort says, looking up at the analog clock mounted above the door. She looks flustered, and points at the both of them. "Don't either of you repeat words like that, okay?"

"Okay," they chorus in unison. She adjusts her curls one last time. "Alright, training starts at ten-o-clock both days, and we mustn't be late! We only have ten minutes to get there!"

She hurries to the door as fast as her ridiculous dress will allow and unlocks it, handing the key to the Avox who has made a timely reappearance.

They exit the apartments and Bellina presses the down button with her long fingernails. It does not register with the machine, and she has to press it again, much to Brita's exasperation. The doors _ding_ open and the trio of them crowd inside, glad to be off of the landing. The chrome doors shut in front of them and Edward feels his stomach drop as the floor gives way beneath them. _I don't think I'm ever going to get used to these_, he thinks, _unless the houses in the Victor's Village have them_. They stop at a floor Edward is unfamiliar with, having been ushered straight from the lobby to his room yesterday.

_This is it!_ He bounces on the balls of his feet as the doors slide open to reveal a massive room held up by great concrete pillars. More elevator doors _ding_ open to either side, and the tributes from Four and Ten step out. The pair from Four already seem to be deep in conversation, and the girl tosses back her dark ebony hair and laughs. The pair from Ten, in contrast, barely speak to each other as they make their way to the throng of tributes all dressed in similar training gear.

He had proudly put his gear on this morning, and feels very flexible within the synthetic material it's made out of. Edward is all too aware of the silence behind them after Bellina shooed them out of the elevator. He and Brita, despite their differences, stick together as they make their way across the polished concrete floor. The fluorescent lights overhead create a strange, mirror-like glow on it, and he's overwhelmed with anticipation as he takes in the stations, scattered across the room.

He can see tons of weapon stations, like archery, knives and spears with stationary targets downrange from them: There's a huge adjourning tunnel he's sure is where the holographic moving targets are projected through to the side, and to the other side of the holographic range is the non-ranged weaponry, hand-to-hand combat, and the wrestling stations. On the other side of the hall he can barely make out the stations geared toward arena survival, away from all the action. Above them, he can see a few of the Gamemakers watching them, and he looks eagerly for the Head Gamemaker but does not see her.

The others have begun to crowd around the head trainer, and Brita's hand on his shoulder restrains him from pushing through the crowd to get to the front, though he can see the woman from here.

"Welcome, tributes, to the Training Center!" the woman declares, stretching out her arms in a gesture of welcome. The Gamemakers above look down on them with varying expressions of interest.

"I'm sure you're all dying to get started."

* * *

**Crescentia Monroe **(**18**), **District 1 Tribute**

_Last night certainly went well_, she thinks, still nursing a slight headache. _Vodka didn't make me feel like this when I went out drinking with Lavender and Gemma_. More often than not, a lack of parental supervision had led them to taking sips from their parents liquor cabinets. It almost _always_ resulted in the four of them doing something crazy or outlandish. She'd even shown up late to a rehearsal with Turmalin once, and though _she_ thought she had been dancing _much_ better than normal, her dancing partner disagreed strongly.

_But he didn't make me go home_. Perhaps that's why she's even standing here, listening to the trainer establish some ground rules. Her heart really isn't into it, but she's going to be damned if she doesn't see the pageant through. _Resilience is what's going to keep me going. I'm not a quitter._ Instead, she gets her first good look at the group of tributes, all dressed in identical training clothes instead of outrageous costumes like the prior night.

The Careers all stand in a loose bunch, but most other tributes stand with their district partners. Some, like the pair from Seven, are conversing in low voices. Others look more standoffish, like the boy from Six. She meets his eyes and feels a chill roll down her spine at the amount of sheer fury that is reined in behind his dark brown eyes. _We have the same hair color, but that's where the similarity stops_, she thinks, breaking the tension by looking away toward the girl from Eleven, who seems to be turned away from her partner. The head trainers finishes up her speech with a clap. "Alright, tributes! You have two days to learn whatever you'd like to present to our Head Gamemaker." She looks up at the box where they're all sitting, and the muscles in her neck twitch. "Well, she isn't here yet, but I'm going to release you to browse the stations as you desire. Just remember that learning a weapon will mean nothing if you die of natural causes." With that, the crowd of twenty-four uneasy tributes disperses.

Castiel gives them a jaunty grin and pushes through the lingering crowd of tributes to be the first one to get to the training dummies. Hela's eyes still betray how upset she must be from the decision last night. The girl works nimble fingers through her dark black hair, weaving it into a braid so that it doesn't get in her face. "I'm going to spar with the trainers," she says coolly. "It's a shame we can't spar with each other, or I'd give _Castiel_ a run for his money," she sneers, stalking off before the rest of them can reply.

Crescentia wonders if she should braid her hair too, but decides it is too short as she catches the stare of one of the Gamemakers sitting in their box up above. _I went to a theatre once,_ she remembers. _Dad bought us all tickets in a box not unlike theirs_. She quickly looks away. _Somehow, they make me nervous_. Her father hadn't taken them to the theatre since Crescentia dropped from her training course at the Academy. Once the tension leaves with the exclusion of Castiel and Hela, the remainder of the Careers - fragmented as they are - begin to walk aimlessly, looking for a station to start at.

They pass by other tributes, and she looks on with a mild sort of interest, trying to get a feel for who actually knows what they're doing. _And who I might be able to take down should the occasion arise that I have to prove that I'm as trained as the rest of them_. Most tributes are going through some of the stations alone, discussing tactics with the trainers. The little boy from three is trying to get pointers on knife throwing, and the clattering of each missed target only adds to the din that fills the room. _Knife throwing might be useful_.

A comfortable silence falls between the four of them as they pass the pair from Five kneeling in the dirt of the fire-starting station, creating wisps of smoke from between two sticks. They don't stay long enough to see if the duo is successful under the tutelage of a patient trainer, but she makes a mental note considering the angle of the sticks. _Fires mean you're easier to spot, but if we're up against some kind of polar region or stranded in the dark, I'm gonna need to know how to do something about it_. They pass the boy from Eight as he pummels a punching bag, his fist slamming into the bag over and over. Moses looks as though he wants to give the boy pointers, but says nothing about it.

Finally, they arrive at the weapons station again, which is empty save the girl from Ten trying her luck throwing a spear at moving targets. _Not something I'll be trying_, Crescentia grins inwardly as the girl clenches her fists in anger after missing her target.

"Alright, Alton," says Moses casually as they stop walking. He rests his hand on the cool iron of the weapons rack. "Pick your poison." _Fuck_, she thinks. _He better not ask me to do the same._ The boy hefts a morningstar off the rack, leaning it against the fractureless gray wall. He returns to grab a trident and gives the dark-skinned boy a wink.

"It's our specialty," he jokes, oblivious to the heat that rises to Moses' cheeks as he delivers the wink. _Maybe there's something between them?_ To tell the truth, she's been wondering this since last night, when the Career from Two was staring ever so blatantly Alton's exposed muscles. "How many do you want to bet that I can hit?" he calls over to Moses, ignoring the irate girl from Ten as she's pushed off from where she was practicing. The girl throws down her spear and goes off to sulk somewhere.

_Hopefully not to go get her partner_, she thinks. All Pomponius could talk about this morning is how the outliers were savages: apparently Ten's escort had been punched and the boy from Eleven had his token seized for trying to bring a weapon into the Games. "The counter runs to ten," she can hear Moses saying. "Go for ten," he shrugs. The boy from Four flashes him a grin, and slaps the button on the wall to spur the holographic targets into existence. He hoists the trident in one hand and nods to Moses, who has his hand on the pause button so that Alton can retrieve his weapon.

Crescentia sighs and turns to Siren. Her companion has been silent the entire walk, but she's glad to have the opportunity to talk to the mysterious girl from Four. "So how did Alton convince you to join us?" she asks as they walk a little downrange from the boys. "He kept yammering on about strength in numbers or something like that," she confesses to Siren.

The girl laughs, a clear and melodious tone that rings off the iron weapons racks in front of them. "He asked me on the trains if I wanted to join him," she says. The girl is short, roughly an inch shorter than Moses, is easily much more beautiful than any of the others in the Career Pack. Crescentia winces, dragging a strand of blonde hair out of her eyes. _Neither of us belong here_. _Yet Alton invited her to this party, and I'm just here by default_.

Instead of voicing her opinions, she just nods. "Great! I think he's right. The more people on our side, the less that can run against us," she grins. "I'm not the most trained person here either. I mean, you probably saw on the tapes that I wasn't exactly the selected volunteer." _Let her think what she wants, so long as she underestimates me_.

The other girl nods sagely. "We'll have to keep up with the rest then, no?" A brief pause falls between them before the girl speaks again. "Do you know how to throw knives? I can use one to crack an oyster but I'm not sure if I'd be any good throwing one."

Crescentia shrugs. "I never got around to learning it either," she admits. "Mostly I trained with a sword, or combat knives. What do you say we learn it together?" Siren nods, unfolding her arms and selecting one off the rack. A trainer comes over to help them, leaving the boy from Three on his own. She finds herself repeating Castiel's mantra as she takes a knife from the rack and sweeps the room with her eyes. Castiel is nowhere to be seen, Hela is gaining the upper hand on her sparring partner, and Moses and Alton are chuckling over by the moving target tunnel. _Perfection and uniformity_. _Perfection and uniformity_. _Don't fuck this up._

She takes a deep breath as Siren throws her first knife and misses with a gracious smile. None of the Careers are watching her. The Gamemakers are, but somehow that the thought of them spotting her incompetence is less frightening than what the trained killers around her might do.

She just hopes that the rest of them don't realize there's a liar in their midst before it's too late.

* * *

****Evanna Lynn ******(******15******), ******District 10 Tribute****

She is well and truly _pissed_.

Not only were she and Ruben compared to _mongrels_ by the first Capitolite they'd ever had the displeasure to meet in person, but the same man dressed them in sweltering felt cow suits as a form of immediate retribution. _And not bulls or cattle even_, Evie thinks bitterly, her eyes unfocused as she crosses the glazed concrete floor of the room. _He dressed us like dairy cows! The ones with spots! I just about sweat to death and it didn't help that I had a pair of giant udders hanging off my stomach!_

Needless to say, the Capitol experience has not treated her well. And neither has the first day of training. The tall Career boy from Four had shoved her from where she was practicing trying to aim a spear at something _moving_, and soon she was the one moving, flying off her feet and bruising her elbow. _All because some entitled asshole wanted the tunnel to himself_, she thinks bitterly, trying to squash down the building rage in her chest.

It's been building all morning, ever since their escort gave them a smug smile at breakfast. She swore she heard him making a _moo_ noise in his coffee mug, and it had taken every ounce of willpower in her small fifteen-year-old body not to reach across the pile of breakfast rolls and slap him in the face. _Perhaps spilling hot coffee would melt him and his obscene makeup_, she thinks. _God, what a prick_. Evie storms off from the weapons station and makes a beeline across the floor of the training room, weaving in-between pillar and person alike. She almost knocks the girl from Twelve on her ass, and clenches her jaw to stop from yelling at the girl, who gives her a concerned look. Evie makes sure to bump into her _extra_ hard as she passes, and barely spares a glance backward to watch the curly-haired girl rejoin her friend.

Apart from Ruben and the boy who unceremoniously shoved her off her station, the boy from Twelve is easily one of the tallest tributes. He's clutching his arms with white knuckles, folded tight against his chest, and the girl throws Evie a dirty look.

_Fuck her_, Evie thinks, stumbling toward the restrooms as an ear-splitting headache threatens to consume her thoughts. She pushes open the door with her bruised elbow, gritting her teeth, and nearly collapses by the marble sink. A throaty scream tears from her lips as she lets out her pent up anger from this whole _damn_ day, clenching her fists around the handles which turn the faucet on and tugging at them as hard as she can. Another scream builds in the back of her throat as she does so, sliding to the tip of her tongue so that she screams when she rips it out of the faucet's flimsy hold. She throws the metal handle at the mirror and cracks it, spiderwebbed lines fracturing from the silvery surface around the point of impact.

It clatters to the ground with an angry noise, and she looks to the door as she thinks she hears someone coming. Evie picks up the faucet handle with shaking hands and stares at herself in the mirror, her murderous violet eyes narrowed and her pale hair an absolute mess where she's raked her fingers through it. The heels of her feet in the _stupid_ training shoes hit the wall, and she throws the handle as hard as she can at her reflection, sending silver shards to cascade across the marbled sink. It's not enough, it never is. The headache continues, her mind controlled by some insatiable rage monster that wants to _destroy_ everything in the vicinity.

"GET OUT OF MY _HEAD!_" she shouts, tears running down her face as she buckles to her knees on the pristine bathroom tiles. Now she definitely hears footsteps, and the voice of a trainer calling out into the bathroom. She draws her knees into her chest and begins to sob instead of giving the woman an answer. _The headaches are getting worse_, Evie notes, staring with unfocused eyes at nails bitten down to the quick.

Her silence must have prompted the trainer to come and check the room, but the next thing she knows, she's throwing the gentle hand off her shoulder and gripping two of the trainers fingers, swinging her free hand at the woman's face. _It's not her fault. The tantrums never are._

Ever since her sister was killed in the bloodbath three years ago, they had progressively gotten worse. _Worse, worse, worse_. She punches the trainer, who tries to pin her down. Evie bites the soft part of the woman's hand inbetween her index finger and thumb, and the resulting scream is like music. _Not my fault I want to hurt her. Not your fault, not your fault_, she agrees with herself, using the sink as leverage to pull herself up. She stomps on the woman's hand, and a howl of pain erupts from her. Evie grins, hurling shards of broken mirror at the woman, who has to cover her head with her arms to protect herself.

She doesn't know why she starts to _moo_, but the look of horror on the trainer's face is enough to keep her going, throwing shards until she's out and blood is running down her hands. It takes two Peacekeepers to take her down, and she's successfully pinned to the ground. "Fuck you!" she shouts at them before a gloved hand is clamped over her mouth.

A third Peacekeeper helps the trainer out off the floor. "We… we don't get paid enough for this," the woman stutters, her eyes fearful as she sees the hatred in Evie's. It hasn't yet been a full two days, and Evie already hates the Capitol and all these _stupid_ people around her so much.

She's beginning to calm down, and the headache is reduced to just a throbbing at the back of her skull as her insatiable inner monster is fed.

Yet a thought still lingers in her fifteen-year old head, locked behind darkened purple irises.

_I can't wait to kill them._

* * *

**Tangaria Roolch **(**17**), **District 11 Tribute**

She hasn't said much to anyone since she left, the soft green fabric of the scarf kept protectively around her mouth as if she will be spared from the scorn of the Capitol by simply not speaking to them. But today's a different story. While she must've exchanged a total of three sentences with her district partner the whole time she's known him, there are sixteen other people she can ally with, if she discounts the Careers.

_Fifteen if I don't count the girl that they had to drag from the bathroom_. The head trainer had taken one look at the Gamemakers in their lofty perch and called a recession for lunch, increasing Peacekeeper supervision on the training floor.

_I'm so damn tired of the Peacekeepers_, she thinks to herself as she stands in the food line, reaching over to grab a plate. The food is laid out buffet-style, like her parents would often do in the center of their wobbly table back home, with its extra wooden table leaves tacked on with the addition of new members of their family. The only difference is the absence of unleavened tesserae bread, and the inclusion of about a hundred types of Capitol foods.

Some looks healthy, and she notes a lot of people going for those options, but several others, Careers included, pile their plates high with food that looks too rich for her. _Probably trying to bulk up a little more_, she thinks to herself. She scoops some chicken onto her plate, her mouth beginning to water at the greasy scent. Street vendors in Eleven always sold fried chicken on sticks, but the Roolch family never had the money to buy enough for eight children.

She follows this with a healthy dose of sauteed vegetables, all of which she recognizes from the field, but none of which she has ever had the opportunity to try, and a scoop of rice. The line moves slowly, but it gives her plenty of time to scope out the cafeteria and see where other tributes are sitting. The pair from Five sits together, as does the pair from Six. Four tributes sit close to the door, two older boys and two younger girls, none of whom she can remember their names nor what District they came from. The girl who had caused the disruption in the bathroom is nowhere to be seen, presumably removed by Peacekeepers.

Out of the corner of her eye, as she's busy ladling a second scoop of brown rice on her plate, she sees her district partner leave the buffet and pass the Careers. A scowl is evident on his face, and yet he walks with a little swagger in his step. _He certainly kicked that trainer's ass onto the mat_, she thinks, _but he doesn't deserve any accolades for it_. He seems to slow down, as if he's going to talk to the Careers, and she remembers looking up from the edible plants test to see him talking to the scary Two girl by the sparring mats. If he's going to get the chance to talk with them, Tangaria doubts she'd find out, as the boy from Four with his impressive aim whips out a long leg and trips Asher up. She almost drops the ladle as his foot comes down hard on the linoleum floor, and he wheels around, stomping his other foot on the Four boy's leg.

The Four boy howls, and lunges as if he's going to stand up and throttle her fellow volunteer, but the dark-skinned boy behind him is pulling him backward. Asher's face remains impassive as he flings some kind of potato at his attacker after regaining his footing. She can see laugh being suppressed by the boy holding him back, and the short girl who had practiced with the knives hisses at her district partner, trying to stop herself from laughing.

"Let it go, Alton!"

A Peacekeeper has now made his way through the maze of tables to where the Four boy sits with a chunk of mashed potatoes dripping from his chin. She actually sees the scary Two girl crack a rare grin as the Peacekeeper places a firm hand on Asher's shoulder. "No fighting other tributes before the Games," the soldier says. "I thought they would have made that clear to you on the trains."

By now, the dark-skinned boy is keeping his smile as tight as possible, and the blonde is laughing behind her hand. When he throws her a dirty look, she laughs even harder. "Come on, you _know_ it was funny!"

Alton turns to the boy, who has loosened his grip. "You think this was _funny_, Moses?" he asks with mirth in his voice. The Two boy just grins at him and wipes the potato off his chin, trying not to burst out laughing. _It'd be a nervous laugh_, she decides. _Everything just seems funnier because they're trying to compensate for the last few days they have left_. She turns her back on them as the Two girl begins to say something she can't quite hear, and finishes her time in the buffet line by topping her plate off with a huge slice of chocolate cake, choosing to follow the pair from Twelve as they head toward the back of the cafeteria.

Despite the bouts of conflict they've had throughout the day so far, nothing surprises her more than seeing Asher _sitting down_ with them as she passes. Maybe she's jealous - the Careers would offer the best protection in terms of an alliance - but on account of both her limp and her lack of fighting experience don't exactly make her a prime candidate for recruitment.

Instead, she follows the pair from Twelve and sits with them. The boy has little on his plate, but the girl is loaded up with food. She takes a deep breath. _It's like the first day of school, except by the end of this it isn't the homework that kills you._ "Room for one more?" she asks, cursing herself for how nervous she sounds. The girl shrugs, patting the seat next to her with a free hand, the other scooping some kind of soup out of a bowl.

"We certainly have some explosive tempers today," she tells Tangaria, jerking her head at where Asher sits next to the Two girl, whose hair is still braided from earlier. She can sense a general discomfort in the room as everyone sees seven people sitting at their table instead of six. _Maybe they're all crazy and that's why they like him so much_.

She nods. "I don't think the girl is back yet, the one who was screaming in the bathroom? She was _bleeding_ when they took her out…" Tangaria skips her chicken to try the cake, not caring that it all runs together on her plate. _It's the best damn food I've had_.

"I'm Tangaria," she says as sweetly as she can manage. "From Eleven, but you can tell," she grins, gesturing to the '11' emblazoned on her training suit.

"I'm Mariela, and he's Reynolds," the other girl informs her.

"Great to meet you both!" _I sound so formal_, she chides herself. "Have you guys learned anything interesting today?" she asks. Mariela is glad to tell her, but the boy remains silent, like a stone. It's as if he is shell-shocked, or doesn't care enough to make the effort to talk to her. She's able to keep up ample conversation, but when the boy shifts and reveals arms lined up and down with a multitude of tiny scars, she feels like she's been knocked off the Gauntlet like the girl from Seven was. _His arms look like Habal's, when Dad found him using his razor to trace lines on his skin_. She remembers that day, and the pain she felt, and wonders if he has anyone to lean on, anyone to share his pain.

She makes the decision to get up and switch sides wordlessly, sitting next to the boy. She offers him a hunk of her unfinished cake, and patiently waits for him to decide if he wants it. He takes it from her and gives her a smile, yet she can practically _feel_ the sadness emanating from both of her tablemates. _What is life like in Twelve that causes them to feel so… empty?_ The trio eats in comfortable silence for a minute, and Tangaria decides that she will share their pain. _I take care of people, that's what I do_, she assures herself, thinking of little seven-year-old Gravnu back at home. She wonders if he knows that she might not be coming home.

_Everyone deserves a shoulder to cry on._ She finishes her piece of the cake and feels a sense of pride when she sees that Reynolds has done the same. _Maybe I can do something for the both of them_, she thinks. Lunch ends shortly thereafter, and the group of disgruntled tributes makes their way back into the training room, trying to scrape the last bits of food off their plates like a pack of hungry wolves.

They return to their stations, and everything is exactly as they had left it, save the addition of a very striking woman in the Gamemaker loft. She's wearing a plain white blazer and has her dark hair swept into a bun, the graying streaks shooting through it like bolts of lightning. _Like some kind of mad scientist_, she thinks fearfully. _Mom said I had nothing to fear. Nothing to worry about._ She suddenly wishes she had her scarf as the woman meets her eyes and the air chills around her. Wishes she had her last piece of home, her last bit of bravery despite Mariela and Reynolds at her sides.

Impressing this woman is everything.

She is the one who will decide Tangaria's fate.

* * *

**TRAINING CENTER {NIGHT 1}**

* * *

**Filip **'**Padds**' **Padderson **(**17**), **District 9 Tribute**

He doesn't feel empty, but one day in the Training Center has already made him think more about his impending doom than the entirety of the train rides, or the parade where everything flew out of his head. _Trying to wave at everyone looking like a giant cob of corn totally helps my chances_, he rolls his eyes sarcastically and groans, flopping onto the couch.

He misses his little brother Kieran, and wishes he was here to enjoy the Capitol with him. Challah and his parents were always too focused on the present. On District 9, on improving the genetic strands of grain to

Despite spending the day staying away from the Careers and some of the outlier boys who chose to spar and handle weapons, Padds and his new allies decided it would be a better choice to learn some fundamental survival skills first. _Who'll be laughing now, when I can survive on my own? _He shakes his head, staring at the ceiling, imagining the Master of Ceremonies shaking his hand on the stage.

_The corn-on-the-cob? Oh, he outlasted most of the Careers. Yes, without any help. _He chuckles, watching Arley and Granger enter their apartments behind him. Arley snags a muffin from the tray their Avox served them at breakfast and sits down to join him on the couch, her thin fingers unwrapping the muffin like a bird and its prize.

"Make sure you four are quiet," Granger offers them a kindly smile. "We'll be trying to sleep." He pours himself a glass of water before retreating to his room, the muttering following him.

There's a knock on the door, and he half-expects the normally good-natured Granger to come out and scold them for it, but he doesn't. Arley gets up and unlocks the door for their allies. Winston always has an easy grin on his face that Padds is eager to reciprocate. _It's so much easier to make this a positive experience while it lasts_, he thinks to himself. _It's like boot camp and karaoke for a couple of days, at least before we have to kill each other._

"Hey, Padds," he says, swiping the last muffin from the tray before Bash can get to it. She puts out her bottom lip as if she's pouting and tries to take it back from him, succeeding in ripping off the top.

"Ha!" she shouts triumphantly, and Padds can feel his eyes bug out as he waits for someone to fling open their door.

"Not fair," Winston complains. "The top is the only _good_ part of the muffin. You're leaving me with what tastes like something my mom can bake."

"You say that like it's an insult," Arley tells him.

"Damn, aren't you glad you are off camera, Winston?" Padds grins from ear to ear. "What would your mom think if she heard you saying that? Going through all this trouble to go back home and she just kills you with a rolling pin!" The pair from Seven are _cackling_ as Arley lifts up a paper towel tube from where she's positioned in the kitchen, pantomiming whacking someone with it.

_If you don't make fun of death, you won't get life's last laugh. _Bash dances away from Winston's clumsy attempt to retrieve his lost treasure, his arms grabbing air. "Dammit, Bash!"

She giggles and sticks out her tongue, blowing a raspberry in midair before promptly eating the entire thing. Winston feigns defeat, and uses a finger to trace a fake tear on his cheek.

"So what's our plan for tomorrow?" he asks, reclining on the couch.

"Dude, I've got no idea," Padds admits.

"We could keep honing our survival skills, but the least we should do before getting dumped into the arena is learn how to use _some_ kind of weapon."

The copper-haired boy shrugs. "I'm cool with whatever, so long as we steer clear of the Careers. Someone else can put up with them, to be honest."

A comfortable silence falls between the boys, as Arley and Bash have left to go hang out in Arley's rooms. Padds keeps staring at the ceiling intently, as if some apparition is supposed to materialize and tell him he can go home. He twists Varia's bracelet around his wrist, the silver material dull in comparison to the shiny ambiance of the Capitol. _It won't make you any taller, but it's to remember us by_, his friend had told him.

_It cost me money, so you had better bring it home_. His lips tug into a frown, and he decides he'd better get his head away from home. "Do you have anyone waiting for you back home?" he asks Winston.

The boy looks a little startled to be asked this, but sighs and pushes himself up on his elbows. "My girlfriend lost her younger brother to the Games… and now she might lose me too," he confesses his worry. "I don't want her to be left alone back home, you know?"

Padds regrets bringing it up. _Another reminder of what the Games tear apart_. He picks absently at the fabric of the couch, trying to snap the fiber of a stubborn thread. "I'm sorry to hear that, Winston," he frowns.

"I haven't got a girlfriend, but I know my best friends and my little brother are counting on me to come back." He sighs. _But not a mother or a father who care if I do._

The silence returns between them; it's nice to have someone who will listen. Someone who might actually care, at least for the time being. Filip Padderson is beginning to learn to forget what others think about him. His parents don't matter anymore, but these personal connections - these crucial days to learn anything he can to increase the odds that _do not_ seem stacked in his favor - are what matters.

It matters that he take these people as far as he can, that this alliance can take care of its own, and that he can outlast the biggest threats by ensuring the endurance of his own performance in the arena.

In the game of survival, _he_ will be the one to dictate his future.

* * *

**Hela Mistlyre **(**18**), **District 2 Tribute**

The day's events were somehow nothing short of physically exhausting for Hela. Despite her rigorous Academy training, _nothing_ could have prepared her for how a single day in the Training Center would turn out. Not to mention the group voting _against_ her last night.

_I know I could kick Castiel's ass in a fight if I had to_, she thinks to herself angrily. Years of strategy lessons with her trainers taught her that being the Pack leader makes it easier to dictate the course of your own Games. But when she discussed her visions of gore and glory with her sister, Lokir had told her something she hasn't yet forgotten.

_When you're in charge, people are going to want you dead._

The leader of the Pack is arguably the most dangerous position to hold if done incorrectly, and Hela's mind is racing, twisting her thoughts into dark fantasies of insurgency, of rebelling against Career tradition and taking charge. Taking matters into her own hands. "I deserve it, and he knows it_," _she whispers aloud in the dark. She sits upright on the bed, drawing open the thin blinds to expose the glittering of the brightly-lit streets, like an eyesore that threatens to drown out the crescent moon up above.

_Maybe I'm taking this too seriously_. Hela sighs and digs her fingers in the tight plaits of her braid, carefully untangling her raven-black hair. But by then, she's already begun to form the inkling of a plan in the back of her head.

When the world outside her door has quieted, she places a pale hand on the knob and eases it open. The main room is silent, and she knows that the closed doors on the far side belong to the adults, all tired from doing whatever the hell they do all day while the tributes scramble to pick up skills that might hastily prepare them for the long road that lies ahead.

_But I've been prepared for years_. She draws in a shaky breath, tiptoeing into the kitchen to take the key she knows the Escort leaves on the counter. A noise startles her from the couch, and she cranes her neck quietly to see the sleeping form of her district partner sprawled out on the charcoal gray cushions, one arm draped over his eyes so that his elbow points directly at the chandelier in the center of the room.

She sighs. He got back later than she had, preferring to ride the elevator to drop off both Castiel and Alton at their respective floors. _I won't let them run the alliance_, she thinks bitterly. She has no idea where Crescentia's loyalties lie, for the girl seems more mysterious by the day. _But there has to be some kind of loyalty to Castiel_, she ponders. _After all, she and Alton voted for him_. Hela sighs, careful that the sound isn't too loud in the empty void in front of her. Siren might be a free agent, being Reaped and all. _Or the boy who threw his lunch at Alton_, she thinks.

In fact, the more she dwells on the subject, the more she remembers watching this boy, with his wavy red hair and cocky grin. She'd seen him take on a trainer, wrestling the bulkier man to the ground despite having a frame much lither than his adversary. _Was he following me? _She wonders, thinking of the flash of fiery hair beside the weapon racks, always within her peripheral. _I did invite him to join us at lunch, though_.

_Maybe I've been keeping an eye on this boy, too_, she muses. He's able to handle himself well, demonstrating at least _some_ combative talent, and his cold anger at being tripped was plainly written across his face. _Maybe he'll have the guts to go with me, like a contingency plan_, she ponders as she finishes lacing up her shoes in the kitchen, throwing a thin black windbreaker over the training clothes she never bothered to change out of.

She heads for the door, stopping briefly at the end of the couch to look down on Moses' sleeping form. _Would he side with me if I were to overhaul the alliance and stage an accident for Castiel during the bloodbath?_ She moves on, leaving him behind her as she heads for the landing. _Would any of them?_

She's pleasantly surprised that travelling between housing floors doesn't require a keypad or a punch card to access. She punches in the small button reading '11' and waits patiently for the doors to close with their unnerving _hiss_. It's something she's sure she will never get used to, no matter how long she spends here in this gilded prison. _Better than our quarters back home_, she thinks. Lokir must have the entire place to herself now, and Hela isn't sure how to feel about that. After their father abandoned them - the legendary Hannibal _fucking_ Mistlyre _abandoned _them because his greed outweighed his heart - it had become she and Lokir against the wars of the world.

And if she doesn't make it back, neither sister will ever find the home they crave, the sense of belonging to something other than the cold chambers they've been granted as _wards of the Academy_. _Maybe Flarian can take care of Lokir_, she thinks. _Surely my old sparring partner wouldn't mind? _

She sighs and pinches her nose as the elevator slows down when it begins to near his floor. He had talked about himself at lunch a little, and based on how wary the Peacekeepers seemed around him, she'd guess that _most_ of his stories are true. If they are, the Wolfchild is definitely someone to contend with. _What a stupid name_, she thinks. The Peacekeepers forcing him to give up his token so they could confiscate the bladed glove lines up with his story about killing a jackal with just his bare hands.

_Apparently he used the claws for the glove._ She shakes her head, getting the last few snarls out of her sleek black hair, and exits the elevator onto District Eleven's pitch-black landing.

She barely has time to wonder how she's going to get inside before she's slammed in the chest and pinned against the wall with surprising force.

He holds a knife to her throat, the cold blade digging right into the strong curve of her jawbone. His eyes appear feral, and he bares his teeth angrily at her, his canines agleam in the light of the open elevator doors. _He looks like a fucking rabid animal_, she thinks, returning the snarl with a smirk.

"How did you get the knife?" She asks coolly, a calm demeanor icing her face.

"None of your business," he hisses through his teeth. "Why the _hell_ are you on my floor?"

"I have an offer to make you," she tells him. The blade does not lessen its hold against her throat, but Hela knows she is fully capable of disarming and dismembering him with the same knife he is holding to her throat.

"_What?_" he asks, almost impatiently. The way he slackens his grip when he talks is an obvious tell.

"What if we were to formally induct you into the Careers? They've allied with outliers before, especially if they look particularly skilled," she says, allowing the compliment to sink in.

"Why me?" he questions, finally dropping the knife so that she might take a step away from the wall and be comfortable on this dark landing.

Now it's her turn to grin at him. "We'll take out the Careers, from the inside out. Starting with Castiel." Her voice is dripping with venom, the dark words unmasked. "You and me, we can control our own Games. I know you've got talents, Asher," she pleads.

This seems to make him flash her a _very_ winsome smile, though she isn't quite sure with the way the shadows fall across his pale face. "And will the others agree if you let me ally with you?" he asks.

"They seemed to like you enough at lunch, apart from Alton," she admits. "But it doesn't matter. I can argue with them too since Siren was Reaped we need someone else who knows how to fight."

He nods slowly, spinning the knife between his fingers. "I'm going to see if I can get her on board too, since I think Castiel has the rest of them wrapped around his finger." she admits to this boy, who she's known for a single day. _Is it too early to be telling him this?_

"I'm all for it," the Wolfchild tells her, his dark eyes agleam with excitement. "We can take them."

She nods, and extends her hand for a handshake. His grip is firm, and he looks her dead in the eyes. "Just don't come up here and scare the shit out of me again," he instructs her, a rueful smile playing across his lips.

"Don't put a knife to my neck. I'd be more than happy to reciprocate the favor," she grins, narrowing her emerald eyes. He mock bows to her and retreats to his apartment, signaling the end to their conversation.

_We'll talk more tomorrow_, Hela thinks. She's feeling oddly positive that the plans she's setting in motion might just be worth something. _Castiel better watch out_. But there's something left over from her conversation with the lithe boy from Eleven. Something about his eyes that doesn't seem to correlate with his cocky and fuck-it-all attitude.

There might be more to this boy, and that thought almost thrills her. He's the unknown, the enemy caught up in a spider's web of deceit and lies. But Hela Mistlyre will have to build her own home, forged through blood and sweat and tears. _This is how I'm going to do it_, she thinks. _I'll win a house for me and Lokir, and we'll move in right next to Dad_.

It all starts with rallying her own troops. It ends with knowing when to marshal them against the enemy.

_What better way them to give them all show they won't forget?_

* * *

**End Note****: So, after a lot of people explained to me how Google Forms **_**actually**_ **works, I have spaced out the link on my profile. Just delete the spaces. I'd LOVE it if the check-in could be completed by the time the private sessions begin, as that's when sponsor forms will officially open. I've only got three forms but obviously my thing was wACKY so if you guys could just make sure to do that, cool beans (you will get sponsor points for it). **

**I'm **_**slowly**_ **getting my sh*t together lol. I'm not very happy with this chapter, but whatever.**

**What did you think of the different facets of these characters introduced? Any changing opinions on them? I think that some of these characters are going to surprise you guys. I'll be back with another update, "Everyone Bleeds the Same", detailing Training Day 2! **

**As usual, I would love to hear any opinions, critiques or feedback! **

**Have a great day/night you guys! :))**


	13. Chapter 13: Everyone Bleeds the Same

"_Bad company_

_I can't deny_

_Bad, bad company_

_Till the day I die"_

-5 Finger Death Punch, Bad Company

* * *

**TRAINING CENTER {DAY 2}**

* * *

**Mariela Polaris **(**15**), **District 12 Tribute**

_The morning has to be the most brutal part of this new Capitol regiment_, Mariela groans. She rolls out of bed and sluggishly changes out of her loose silk pajamas into her tight, constricting bodysuit. _How can clothes go from feeling so nice to fucking choking my entire body?_ She sighs, trying to ignore the dark circles under her eyes. _We've been here two whole nights now and I've barely slept at all, despite all their arrangements._

Mariela bunches up her hair, putting the unruly curls into a loose ponytail. _I guess it's harder to sleep when you're like a roasted pig served on a platter to be served for their twisted entertainment._

A firm knock on her door signals breakfast, and she reluctantly leaves the haven of her room. Her fingers close around the locket and she unclasps it from it's home around her neck, gently resting it on the nightstand. It's too bad they don't allow tributes to bring their tokens with them during their training; Mariela could surely take strength from her loved ones back home. _It's not that yesterday was bad… I made allies. I'm just afraid of what the future holds._

_So very afraid_. "You coming to eat with us?" the familiar voice of their escort calls from the main room.

"Yeah," she replies, looking around the spacious room before pulling up a chair. _Compared to living in the Seam, this place never loses its fucking magic._ She can't tell if she loves it or hates it, but the food is certainly better.

"So the pair of you seems to be getting along pretty well, I'd say," Romulus grins at them. Their mentors are already out, same deal as yesterday. _Hopefully they're getting us sponsors… we did cause quite a stir at the parade_. The last-minute idea to add smoke machines behind her and Reynolds - dressed as burning coals and a furnace respectively - had awed the Capitolites. She remembers their hands reaching through the line of Peacekeepers to try and grasp at the wisps of smoke, like she is clearly grasping at the straws laid in front of her. _Trying not to get the short one_.

"Yeah, we are," says Reynolds tiredly. She shoots him a concerned look, which he dismisses, getting up to get a cup of coffee from behind their escort.

"You both aren't very talkative today," their escort frowns, scooting out of the way so Reynolds can access the coffee pot.

"When have we ever been?" the boy grumbles from behind him. He pours the steaming liquid into a mug, and Mariela can't help but be drawn to the tiny scars that mark his pale arms. Granted, she has a multitude of scars too, but they're haphazard and sporadic from accidents in her youth. June and the Iparis boys used to take her out to the woods, resulting in tons of tiny scratches from the foliage around her. _But Reynolds' scars are too uniform._ She sighs and pokes at her breakfast, not wanting to ask him about them. She feels him sit next to her once more, and tries to strike up conversation.

"What did you think about that Tangaria girl from yesterday?" she asks.

He takes a long draught of black coffee. "Yeah, I liked her. She seems really nice… and she might have some skills useful for us. The more the merrier, I guess."

Romulus nods. "Just be careful to watch whoever you ally with. It would be better to make sure you know you can trust this girl before you put too much faith in her."

Mariela shrugs. "I mean, I like her a lot too, I think she's a pretty compassionate person, to tell you the truth." She goes back to her plate. _I need to eat something to have energy for training today._ Yesterday, she was on her feet all day and only ate at lunch, having skipped breakfast. "What do you want to learn today?" she asks her district partner.

"I dunno," he says, his eyes glazed. "Yesterday we tried edible plants and rope knotting. Should we learn a weapon if the Careers aren't hogging the stations again?"

She nods thoughtfully, and finishes her breakfast in silence before Romulus rouses them to head for the elevator. "You guys have ten minutes," he says calmly. "Good luck, all right?" They give him thanks and close the doors, shooting downward at lightning speed to the underground gymnasium that is the Training Center.

Thankfully, when the doors open the first person they see is Tangaria, standing by herself off to the side, trying to braid her hair as quickly as possible before the head trainer comes out and gives them their pep talk of the day. Mariela crosses over to help her out, deftly weaving the coarse black hair together.

"Thank you, Mari," Tangaria says, a little surprised.

"Don't worry about it," Mariela beams at the use of her nickname. "My sister and I did things like this for each other all the time, so it's no big deal."

The other girl smiles. "How old is your sister? I have four brothers and three sisters… I volunteered for my youngest sister if you remember the recap," she says ruefully.

"That's a _lot_ of siblings!" Mariela says, a little shocked. "My sister is nineteen, so she's out of reaping age. Why would you volunteer for your younger sister? You look pretty close to being out of the age limit…"

"I'm seventeen, yeah," Tangaria says. "And… honestly, well, I'm regretting my decision. I love my family, and I'd do anything to protect them, you know? But I wasn't thinking about what I was throwing myself into… and now I'm here." She pauses with a frown, and shrugs her narrow shoulders. "I wonder if they'll ever get to see me again."

Mariela's heart hurts. _Everything hurts… there's twenty three families that are going to suffer by the end of this, and Tangaria's might be the one hurt the worst._ She extends her arms and wraps the other girl in a tight hug. "You don't know that, Tangaria," she tries to say reassuringly. "None of us know what's going to happen," Mariela whispers in her ear.

"T-Thanks, Mari." Her new friend wipes a tear out of the corner of her eye just as the head trainer makes her appearance. _None of us know what's going to happen. None of us know what slaughterhouse we're being shipped off to_.

This is the thought that threatens to scare Mariela Polaris, the girl who decided a long time ago that she wouldn't fear life's _goddamn _obstacles. _Maybe, just maybe, I can make it out of here alive_, she thinks, glancing at Tangaria and Reynolds beside her. _But at what cost?_

* * *

**Halley Verron **(**12**), **District 8 Tribute**

She looks at the group of Gamemakers furtively before the head trainer dismisses the group for their second day of training in the Capitol. They sit like a flock of bejeweled birds, with the Head Gamemaker at the helm. _Watching us_. It's a feeling Halley has never been able to shake off, even back home in District 8. The Panemian government has eyes and ears everywhere; camera lenses large and small as black and ominous as the helmets of their soldiers. _Being watched directly is different_, she decides. _No one paid me any mind back home, but here…_

Here, everyone watched. Everyone was waiting for her to slip up, to prove herself a failure. _Darnius included_. The two of them, despite their mentor's best efforts, haven't spoken since the night of the parade when she slapped him across the cheek for making fun of her friend. She watched him yesterday, while she learned the ropes course. He spent an hour or so punching the plain gray bags at the end of the hall near the hand-to-hand combat stations, his closely-cropped hair dark with sweat. It's a station she knows she won't need, and so she hasn't bothered to learn. _The streets have taught me enough of that_.

There have been more than enough situations where other street rats or bored Community Home kids have decided that a thin prepubescent girl is a fine enough target to beat up in the crooked alleyways between Eight's towering tenements. And there have been more than enough situations where young Halley Verron has ran out with bleeding knuckles and a scowl on her face, running from the angry shouts and pained wails behind her. _They expected me to be a failure too_, she scowls now, emerald eyes clouding over in anger as she walks quickly around the room.

Her scowl turns into a squint as she passes under the harsh fluorescent lights, squeezing the lids shut as the bright light threatens to remind her of the white-hot flames that incinerated her house. _The flames that fucked me over_. She takes a deep breath and tries not to stare directly at them, instead watching the other tributes get started on their stations for the day. The Ten girl is back, but far away from her district partner. Others stand in loose clusters, and she can identify most are sticking with their district partners by the numbers on their shirts.

She finds herself standing alone, despite the sea of tributes and trainers eddying around her. In front of her looms the Gauntlet, with its raised platforms like the jagged teeth of some great monster. Trainers swing padded bats at a blond Career - District 1 if she had to venture a guess - who attempts to complete the obstacle course.

It's _nothing_ like the climbing ropes course that she had tried yesterday, learning to shift her weight on the knotted ladders and nets to stay balanced. It looks much harder, a point proved when the blond boy takes a hit to the stomach and slips, his training shoes losing their grip on the crimson mats. He hits the ground with a thud, and a tall boy with rich olive skin helps him up, chuckling as he does.

"Shut up, Alton," the blond boy bites back a laugh. "Go on, you try," he says, his eyes crinkling with mirth.

The taller boy shrugs and jogs over to the start of the Gauntlet, his broad back facing her. A trainer yells that he can begin, and he starts jumping between the platforms as gracefully as he can, trying to steady himself when he is in danger of toppling over. But his frame is too large, and their padded clubs catch him in the ribs, sending him crashing hard into the floor.

"Uh-huh!" laughs the District One boy. "That's what I thought." He chuckles, lifting a hand to thank the trainer who knocked Alton off. The sounds of their friendly bickering seem to melt into the drone of the training floor as Halley makes a decision, stepping up to queue for the obstacle course. The nearest trainer arches an eyebrow and hits the timer button. Halley watches the red digital numbers count down from fifteen, tying her mousy brown hair back into the same ponytail she's worn all her life. She takes a shaky breath, steadying herself, her eyes darting nervously between the trainers as the clock winds down.

"Go!" shouts the trainer, and she throws herself into action, propelling off the floor and onto the first platform. Time seems to slow down for her, the pulse of her heart in sync with the flickering numbers, now not counting backwards but counting forwards. _Progress_, they seem to say. _Move your ass!_

The trainer's padded club swings at her, like a softened Peacekeeper truncheon back in Eight. Halley takes a sharp breath and ducks under it, leaping onto the next platform. She quickly steadies herself and tries to collect her spatial awareness, eyes darting back and forth to evaluate the trainers lying in wait for her.

A quick swipe from one sends her vaulting to the next platform, three of ten. Four. Five. _Six_ before they even catch up to her again, and Halley Verron is _still_ unreachable. Untouchable. She bites her lip and jumps the next gap, hitting the seventh on her heels and teetering on the edge before regaining her balance.

_Move! _she tells herself, avoiding yet another swipe from a trainer. _It's no different from home_, she thinks. _No different from stealing and running. No different. _It becomes her momentary mantra; one which fuels her to slip into a state of familiarity. _I've done this a hundred times_, she tells herself, chewing on the inside of her cheek as she hits the eighth platform, crouching to center her gravity on the crimson mat. The varying heights of the platforms are making her legs ache. A trainer forces her to keep moving, and the end of a club almost catches her ankle midair, forcing her to land awkwardly on the next mat.

The clock is near her face now, it's glancing neon numbers dancing in her eyes as she bridges the final distance to reach the tenth platform. She hits the button and stops the clock, suspending the red numbers in their final position.

Breathless, Halley drops as silently as a cat onto the glossy training floor. The trainers look dumbfounded and remain silent behind her, gripping their clubs, as she stands again. She rolls her shoulders and grins from ear to ear, trying to catch her breath again. _That was exhilarating!_

She glances over to see the Careers, and can't tell if she's relieved or disappointed that none of them had paid enough attention to see her successfully run the Gauntlet where they had failed about halfway through. Instead they're back at the weapons station, practicing on dummies. _As long as it's not me_, she muses, turning a blind eye to the plight of the dummy.

_People think they can tell me what I can't do. What I'm not capable of_. She'd wager half of the tributes in the room have already written her off as bloodbath material. _Good_, she snorts. _None of them look very trustworthy anyway_. The last thing she would want is a knife in the small of her back.

But up on the Gamemaker ledge, she catches a pair of eyes honed in on her. The Head Gamemaker looks down at her, a glass of champagne in her hand, and Halley instinctively looks away. _Has she been watching me the whole time?_ Halley doesn't want to know, but if the woman who will determine if she is worthy of sponsors might have seen her run the Gauntlet, she might stand a chance. A chill races down Halley's spine as she looks up again, and the woman gives her an imperceptible nod of approval.

* * *

**Nyxandrea Nexus **(**16**), **District 5 Tribute**

"That doesn't look edible at all," she tells him stubbornly, the exasperation setting in on her face despite being in training for only an hour and a half.

_Exasperation, adoration_. Nyx isn't sure how she feels about Sorrel anymore; her thoughts have been skewed ever since the parade, when he had leaned into her so boldly, his lips found hers already parted. Her head feels fuzzy when she thinks about it, about his hands finding hers, the heat rising to her cheeks as she folds into his warmth.

"I'm telling you, we saw this one on the last quiz we took," the kissing culprit tells her with a coolness to his voice that has begun to irritate her. Even back in their apartments after the parade, he had not mentioned the moment they shared on the chariots, wreathed in smoke and sparks from the fireworks behind them. It frustrates her to no end that he seems so unperturbed by his actions that night, actions which have caused her to lie awake at night and contemplate this shitty hand of cards she has been dealt.

She _barely_ knows this boy, other than vague memories that tickle the back of her mind, of him hanging with her brother Solander, or the barest whispers of their brief interactions across the span of her life in District Five. She barely knows this boy, and yet she feels complete now in his presence. Feels like she's been closer to him all this time than she really has been, as if it were Sorrel Nettleson who went on her morning jogs with her instead of Dean. _Feels as if I might be falling in love with him_.

She presses the button, and the screen lights up a bright red, bold letters proclaiming that the plant is, indeed, inedible. "Ha!" she gloats. "I _told_ you so." Granted, it was just a kiss. But for Nyx, the allure of romance is almost too much to handle when she's living on borrowed time.

Sorrel smiles and moves on to the next one, taking his loss with the same unmovable dignity. "What about this one?" he asks, a large leafy plant with thick roots taking shape on the screen. He's been this way all morning, making only idle conversation that sometimes diverges into unwarranted compliments which serve no purpose than to further confuse and vex her. _That's what I don't get. How can he say such nice things and still look unfazed? Like he doesn't give a fuck that I'm dying over here next to him_.

"Edible," she guesses. "The roots, probably, not the leaves." He clicks it and the screen's LEDs turn green. She grins for the first time this morning, her solemn attitude replaced by an excited one as he pulls up the final question on the roster. But when the screen goes red, she throws her hands into the air with an exasperated groan.

"Come _on_," Nyx shakes her head. "We were _that_ close to beating our score!"

Now it's Sorrel's turn to shake his head. "It's okay, Nyxandrea. We aren't going to know everything, especially coming from an urban district. Forgetting one plant isn't going to be the end of us… if you see one you don't know, just don't mess with it."

_Us._ She tries to steady her breathing again as she ignores what she wants the phrase to entail. _I've always been a hopeless romantic_, she chastises herself. _I never knew it would be this good_. In fact, despite a strong effort yesterday by the pair to learn as many survival skills as possible to prepare them for any different arena, Nyx is quickly forgetting everything as she becomes more sure of her newfound feelings. _Goddamn it_.

"I'd rather get a sense for how a weapon feels in my hand," Sorrel continues, looking wistfully at the now-empty weapons station. The Careers have mysteriously gone over to the sparring rings to deal with trainers instead of dummies, leaving the field wide open for people to test things out, like the nimble-looking redhead girl from District 3. _I meant to go talk to her.._. "We won't stand a chance against anyone who knows if all we focus on is the survival aspects."

"We're doing just fine over here, though," she says, gesturing to the edible plants and insects station. Nyx braces a hand on her hip defiantly. _I picked this station, so we're sticking with it until lunch at the very least_, she could say, the words in an arsenal at the tip of her tongue.

"Well, I think it would be better to expand the scope of what we learn here. Anything we can pick up might be useful, you know," he counters.

"News flash, no one cares!" she says scornfully, sitting down stubbornly. _We were here first, and he's just mad that I'm trying to be better at this stupid game._

"Nyxandrea, why are you so angry at me?" he asks calmly, yet again using her entire name to address her. _I need to get him to stop doing that!_ She draws her brows together in frustration.

"Don't you _get_ it yet, Sorrel?" She can feel her cheeks flushing a deeper shade of red, and wishes not for the first time that she could keep a calm demeanor like the boy in front of her.

"Get what?" he asks, trying to placate her.

"I think I'm fucking _falling_ for you! You can't just _kiss_ me like that and expect not to talk about it for the next two days! What the hell is the matter with you?" Now she's breathing hard, her chest rising and falling in anger as she lays her hand of cards down for him to see. She stammers on, despite knowing that anything else she says doesn't matter. Dejection and shame begin to suffocate her. _It all happened so fast… I don't even… he probably just kissed me to get the crowd's approval_, she resigns herself to the belief as he processes what she's said.

What surprises her most is the split-second breaking of whatever carefully constructed mask Sorrel always wear. For a moment, his eyes widen and his jaw drops a little. "You… you _what_?" he asks, his voice taking on a hopeful edge that she has never heard before. Meticulous brows are drawn in surprise as he looks at her now with the same desperate passion he had during the chariots with the fireworks dancing in his eyes.

Taken aback, Nyx looks a little confused. "I-I think…"

It's a sentence she never gets to finish, as Sorrel kneels down next to her with a serious look shielding his eyes. He takes her pale hand in his own rich brown ones, and leans in, breathing heavily. Shivers run up and down her spine, yet she can't turn away as he brings his lips to her ear. She closes her eyes, starbursts filling the void of her vision at his closeness, and she comes to the sudden realization that her feelings have not been misplaced.

"I'll let you in on a little secret too, Nyx," he says, the shortening of her name now catching her off guard. His voice seems raspy, cracking a little as if it is a great burden to get this off his chest. "I… I've felt the same way about you for close to ten years," Sorrel admits, his voice tapering off with uncertainty.

Shock courses through her veins, like an electrical jolt from a blown fuse. _H-He what?_ She tilts her head slightly, his face mere inches from her own, and she studies his deep brown eyes, her heart fluttering, mind soaring. _What is happening? _He cracks another smile, a golden one, and her heart wonders why he does not do so more often in place of the restrictive professional attitude. "You knew that, right?" he asks softly, his breath curling around her ear.

She searches his face for any signs of doubt, like the doubt which plagues her own mind. "I… I had no idea," are the only words she manages to choke out. _We might only be here for a few more days, but I'm going to have to make them count_, she tells herself.

She wraps her fingers more firmly around his and he pulls her to her feet.

* * *

**Alton Kersey **(**18**), **District 4 Tribute**

The other five in the Pack have already sat down. Being closest in proximity to the lunchroom, they were first to the food, leaving Alton and Siren in the middle of the buffet-style lunch line. He helps himself to a grilled chicken breast, knowing the protein is bound to be helpful after a strenuous day training.

The damage he caused among the legion of dummies causes him to feel a spark of pride within his chest. _I can do this. I can fucking do this_. After all, the tributes who surround him are just like the silicon dummies shredded by the spikes of his morningstar, and the prongs of his trident.

_But they are much different, Alton. Aren't they?_ the voice nags the back of his head as he adds a strange purple vegetable to his plate. He quickly shuts it down, silencing his conscience like he has many times before. _Don't be a pussy._ The scorn in his father's voice and the condescending bitterness in his siblings threatens to make him fling this purple _shit_ at his district partner. Instead, he plates it and moves on, silencing his feelings too.

_Fuck feelings_. Feelings make you weak, make you womanly. "Hey Alton, can you hand me a roll?" Siren asks, her voice taking an edge of concern after he flings the serving ladle back into the dish. He looks away from her the second that he hands her the roll, trying not to dwell too long on how flattering the training outfit is to her curves, nor how her eyes seem to hold an ocean of secrets inside, as if she were to know something that he doesn't.

"So how are you liking the Careers?" he asks, trying to make conversation as they move painstakingly slowly through the line.

"It's great," she says. "Apart from you, both of the girls have been really nice to me." _She has been spending a lot of time with Crescentia_, Alton notes. _But Hela?_ Not realizing he vocalized his thoughts, she lets out a lilting laugh and places a hand on his arm. "Yes, Hela. She and I actually had a lot to discuss yesterday, but today she seems very attached to the ginger boy."

Alton watches the group at the table. Asher and Hela are animatedly discussing something over their food, and the pair from One are talking too, though it seems to be a little one-sided as Castiel seems to be demonstrating something as Crescentia eats. Moses, however, is sitting by himself, mulling over his food. "Yeah," he says. "I still don't feel quite right about his inclusion in the Pack," he complains. "I mean, at least you're _from_ a Career district. I mean, he's from fucking _Eleven_, for God's sake."

"I know!" Siren shrugs, her dark ebony hair falling in her face. "She seemed so adamant about him this morning though." In fact, the duo had spent the entire day training at the hand-to-hand combat stations, teasing each other.

Alton shrugs. "I don't trust him. You heard that weird ass laugh at the parade, right? Plus he volunteered, if I remember right. Seems like a loose cannon…" he trails off as Moses looks up and catches his gaze. Alton quickly looks away again when a smile lights up the Two boy's face. The pair of them had been getting awfully close these last few days. _Pick your poison_, Moses had told him yesterday at the weapons rack. A challenge. _Show me what you're made of._

But how could Alton ever explain that the only poison he'd pick if given the chance is Moses himself? He groans and rakes a hand through his short hair, trying to collect himself before the fear takes the wheel. _My dad is right_, he inhales sharply, trying to mentally distance himself from the boy a few tables away. _He's right, I'm not a goddamn man at all. _He blinks back a tear that tries to break out of the prison of his watery eye, and chews on the inside of his lip. _But you need to be_, he tells himself. _You could kill him if you had to._

_But could you live with it?_

"Me neither," his partner says, adding some fish to her plate with a chunky looking sauce on top.

"What the _hell_ is that?" he asks her, blanching at the thought of it anywhere near his mouth.

She just laughs again, a low cadence like the humid sea breezes. Something about it makes him want to make her laugh more often, if he could find the words to do so. "Mango salsa," she grins, tucking the loose strand of hair behind her ear. "My employer, Mr. Castor, would serve it to me and Droplet," she says, her face falling a tiny bit as she reflects on her home.

"Your parents didn't serve it to you?" he asks, knowing the answer the moment the words leave his mouth. _Oh!_ He finally remembers where he has seen this girl before, dredging up trawls and oysters on the shoreline where he and Gea used to walk looking for some privacy. _No wonder her laugh is so entrancing_, he thinks, scolding himself.

A boat captain brought a girl back a long time ago, telling any sailor that would listen that she isn't his. She isn't made from the loins of man but rather _found_ on the seaside… there was a lot of mystery surrounding this enigma girl years back in District Four. This is the girl who sings atop the cliffs in the night, for though the rumors have decreased, she has never stopped her duet with the frothy waves beneath her.

To make himself feel better about the blunder, he helps himself to some of the pungent salsa, trying in vain to keep the juices running into the rest of his food. "So what makes you and Crescentia so close?" he asks her as they finally clear the buffet line and start heading for the rest of their group.

"I'm a singer," Siren says calmly. "She's a dancer. And neither of us are really supposed to be here." Alton's brow furrows in confusion as to what she says, but she is already sauntering away toward the table. She stops and turns back to face him. "You know, Alton… you should really let him know how you feel. After all, time isn't exactly working in our favor here," she shrugs and goes to sit next to Crescentia.

Shocked by how bold her statement is, he comes up short. _How does she know? Is it obvious?_ Panic starts to settle in his chest as he wonders what they must think of him. _Does Moses know? _He hates that Siren's right… the time constraints restrict Alton from ever getting to know this boy, and yet all he wants to do is bridge the gap and taste his lips.

Perhaps he _should_ follow her advice. Whatever plan he had confined himself to this morning is gone. He needs to forget that only one person is coming out alive. He needs to forget what he needs to do, what the people at home _want_ him to do. Alton made himself a promise on the trains: that he wouldn't be someone he's not.

After today, there are two whirlwind days left in the Capitol and then they're taken away. Taken to a place they don't know, a place where he might very well bleed out into the dirt. He makes an executive decision as he sits next to Moses and squashes his anxiety with a winning smile. _I need to enjoy myself while I'm here._

_I need to enjoy myself while I'm still breathing._

* * *

**Ruben Bolt **(**18**), **District 10 Tribute**

Lunch ends all too abruptly, and Ruben groans as he throws the last few bits of a protein-laden meal into the trash can. He sat alone again. The first time was because of Evanna's meltdown that caused her to be removed and stabilized. Today, he had chosen to train alone. To observe yet again meant he was destined to sit alone. _It's fine_, he lets it roll off his back as the pair from Twelve and Tangaria leave the lunchroom with smiles on their faces. _I wasn't here to make friends anyway_, he tells himself.

But Ruben Bolt is enjoying himself, unlike his other counterparts. They're like lost sheep, flocking away from the seven wolves standing at the weapons station. But he isn't afraid of them. _They're mortal_, he snorts, shaking his head. _They can die too_. It pisses him off to no end that the Careers would choose to include an outlier in their alliance that was not him.

He shrugs that off too. _Like my mentor told me, it's best not to get attached to any of them. _The gears in his head are already turning, mapping him the smartest route through this bunch of tributes. It's hard to gauge which ones will fight back - dogs are different, as you can see the fear in their eyes driving them to defend themselves - because it would seem that no one here wants to speak their minds or show their colors.

_This is just a waiting room before we're shipped off to die_, he thinks irritatedly. Ruben's always hated waiting they be before a visit to a physician or the cramped office serving as the storefront facade to Roscoe Black's illegal empire, being forced to wait irks him. Even though they are surrounded by equipment and trainers, none of it can rival the indiscriminate claws of luck. He can improve those odds by two things: gaining sponsors, and making it out of the bloodbath alive. _Luck_.

He shrugs. He's never been _unlucky_ in the underworld casinos that District Ten's crime scene has to offer. But more often than not, the money was won by his boyfriend Gray, and split between the secret brigade rigging the game. _If only he were here with me now_. He's never felt so alone now that he's gone. Having spent the better part of two years falling madly in love with Gray, the pair had often been a constant by each other's sides. He sighs and rolls his neck, assessing the room. Yesterday he had spent hours at the snares station, learning to set up a decent enough trap to catch and incapacitate animals and tributes alike in the event that one stumbled across his path. He had visited swords this morning, and quickly moved on. The Careers returned to the racks after he had a chance to take down two dummies, but the sword requires little skill to deal enough damage, if the target is small enough.

Ruben eyes the trainers on the mats to his right, the boy from Seven grappling with one of those trainers, trying to gain the upper advantage with his fists against the large burlap bag the man carries to absorb the blow. Ruben walks past them and finds a trainer polishing a training sword, his padding eerily reminiscent of the Peacekeepers back home. "You up to spar with me?" he asks the man, who looks up.

"I've only been waiting for someone to join me after lunch was called off," the man jests, which darkens his mood. Ruben quickly straps on some padding to the vital areas and crosses over the mat to unhook a training sword from its position on the rack. The thin rubber edge is giving him some balance problems, so he takes a few practice swipes before facing his opponent.

_Deep breath, Ruben_, he tells himself. He can't help but imagine that the man in front of him is one of his fellow tributes, armed and cornering him up against the Cornucopia. The man sets the timer, the red buttons flashing in a jumble as they count the elapsed time of the sparring session. For the first ten seconds, the man circles him, prowling around his side of the mat with his sword at the ready, before lunging in with a jab at Ruben's chest padding.

The boy deflects the blow with a muffled clang, forcing the trainer's sword off to the side. He then brings it sideways to try and connect with his side, but meets air as the man sidesteps and parries with the rubber edge of his blade. Ruben can feel his blade being forced out of its position by the trainer's side, and strengthens his grip on the hilt, pressing his blade towards the man. Despite his strength, he is forced back, narrowly avoiding a quick swipe toward his abdomen. _Fucking hell, I'm clumsy_, he scolds himself. Dismembering a twelve-year-old is one thing, but a trained and vicious Career? He'd be well and truly fucked before he could even lift a sword, and even more so if he didn't have one at his side. _The Careers play games, but they don't hold back._ He imagines his back up against the wall, remembers his boss teaching him to shoot a gun for the first time. _You shoot to kill_.

Maybe their escort was right, when he compared them to mongrels back on the train. Mongrels fight better when they're backed into a corner, motivated by fear. Ruben blocks the next blow the trainer swings his way, and the pair struggle on the mat. Ruben sidesteps and brings the sword down in a flashy arc at the mans padded shoulder. He connects, and jumps backward as the man swings in retaliation to the heavy-handed hit. The taste of blood blossoms in his mouth as he bites down on his lip, jerking away from the attempted blow and responding with one of his owned aimed at his assailant's ribcage. He sees the man lower his sword an inch and goes again for the same spot, making sure to leave a bruise.

"Fuck!" shouts the man, backing up and almost tripping over his feet. Despite the sparring match being done and over in less than a minute, Ruben feels energized. "More footwork, Ruben," the man says, pausing to take a swig from a water bottle. "You don't know what topography is in the arena, but footwork will ensure you can't be thrown off your balance. It might be the difference between you dodging a blow and successfully landing one on an unprotected enemy, and getting your lung perforated."

Ruben nods. "Watch my feet on occasion," says the trainer. "Not enough to lose your focus, but make sure that you understand what I'm getting at. Your sword work is fine but could be refined. It was a bit clunky, and would leave one of them," he jerks his head towards the Careers, "an opening to dispatch of you."

_If I'm going to get back to the one person I care about, I'd better make sure they don't take me out._ He allows his mind to melt briefly into the visions of lavish living in the Victor's Village. His fingers are intertwined with Gray's; fingers ensconced in two silver rings holding a vow he might not get to pledge if he doesn't come back. _Roscoe might keep him employed if I don't come back. _Moving out of the underworld scene is a dream the pair of them have shared for quite some time, but for now it is a necessary evil to survival.

Just like killing is going to be a necessary evil to his survival in the days to come.

* * *

**Axel Richthofen **(**16**), **District 6 Tribute**

The lies leave his mouth as though his lips are greased with butter, a natural silver plating to the words that he tells her. Words which put her at ease. After the parade, when they had made a splash with the fireworks Camaro had rigged into the broad metal wings of their airplane costumes, he and Mercedes had ridden the elevator all the way up to their room and become acquainted with each other since neither really got the chance to talk too much on the trains.

_Her loyalty to me is just going to make it twice as easy to dispose of her once we make it out of the bloodbath_, he thinks, allowing the dark thoughts to enter unbidden into his head. _Twice the amount of supplies, and one step closer to home._

In the training room, he feels like he's on a stage for the Gamemakers to judge. Not for the first time, he wishes he had a hoodie to hide his face from their prying eyes. _I guess I'll have to make do without_. After all, it would only block out his vision in the arena and make him easier to sneak up on. They sit on their perch, looking down at him like a theatrical audience, and he is reminded of his darkest days walking through rows of upholstered seats faded over time, their crimson backings like the faint outlines of bloodstains under the bleaching sun that breaks through the abandoned theatre's roof to keep an eye on him.

Losing his mind, finding himself, and giving into the temptation of the streets all within the last few years of his life. _Adjusting. What a thrill ride that's been_. He sighs and strolls over to the knife station, trying to ignore the two Career girls practicing on the far end. _Sure, there are kinks to be worked out, but I'm not going to get anywhere surrounded by a bunch of foolish assholes. _Speaking of assholes, he almost loses his balance when a curly-haired boy bumps into his side, clearly not watching where he was going.

"Watch where the fuck you're going you prick!" he mutters, brandishing his knife at the back of the tribute who bumped into him. _That boy probably thinks I'm beneath him,_ he assumes, staring at the back of his head as if he could burn a hole through it. In fact, Axel has been no less than utterly disappointed by the amount of shit personalities contesting in this room. He spent the last day watching and assessing the whole lot of them as he picked up new skills in tracking and snares - which should be useful in the arena for hunting both animals and tributes - and the whole room feels like a damper of virtue, snuffing out anything good the human race has to offer and leaving paranoia and frustration in its absence.

Mercedes gasps beside him, filling his chest with annoyance. "Why did you yell at him? He only bumped into you, Axel," she says. _God she's more irritating than I thought._ If he didn't need her, no doubt Axel Richthofen would have left his partner in the dust long ago. _Needy bitch_.

He sidearms the knife and hears it make impact, turning to look at his district partner. "You stay asleep at the wheel any longer, and it'll be _you_ I'm threatening," he tells her, incapable of helping the slight smirk that crosses his face as he gestures at the target. His knife protrudes from the torso, handle catching the hard light of the fluorescent lights above. "It's us or them, I think I can spare them the niceties."

"_Damn_," Mercedes curses. _Didn't think she had it in her_, he thinks, bemused. "Why are you being such an asshole, Axel? You an' me are supposed to be partners, right? All you've done today is yell at me and talk shit about everyone else, because you're too scared to do it in front of the people who _really_ piss you off."

"Welcome to the party, pal," he spits venomously at his partner. "Congrats on _finally_ waking up." He rolls his dark brown eyes at her. _How easy would it be to slit her throat right now_, he wonders, watching the pale flesh of her throat contract as she swallows her pride. "And just so you know, _Benson_, I'm not scared of anyone except _them_." He gestures to the Gamemaker audience seated above the training floor where they are now focused on a new round of drinks brought in by an Avox servant.

"You know what I mea-"

"Fuck off, Mercedes," he groans. "Are you going to learn how to throw a knife or are you going to be useless when someone comes after us?" He shakes his head in disdain and relaxes his posture, before lifting his arm behind his head, the throwing knife held in his hand. He releases it, using his hand to direct the trajectory of the knife toward the target in one fluid motion, his body tensing as he does so. As he does, he looks to the side where she has joined him, nervously taking a knife off the rack. _I'm surprised she isn't off in a corner somewhere. She strikes me as the type to shy away from an argument_. Maybe he's wrong.

The blade sinks into the target on the wall, inches below the heart. _A gut shot won't quite do the trick_, he remembers Volvo telling him as he and his impromptu instructor stood in the shadows of the blackened brick alleyway, stained with time and smog from the various factories of Six. The man had taught Axel to throw at bulging bags of garbage behind even the dingiest of diners, practicing until the bag tore open and split the rotted remains of food onto the grimy, cracked pavement. He was to retrieve the knife regardless of if it were covered in filth, and continue practicing. _There's going to be a lot worse than that on your knives_, he had been told.

Being the last knife on his rack, he's forced to walk down the lane and retrieve them, ignoring the sounds of another target being thrown at to his right. _It could as easily be me_. _But with her aim, I doubt it_, he observes, watching the girl push sweaty strands of blonde hair out of her face. She looks up with pretty dark blue eyes, and he resists the urge to roll his again, giving the Career girl a wolfish smile. _They're too fucking perfect. It's sickening_. He trots back to Mercedes as fast as possible and takes up a stance again, making sure he throws with more force. _She's on the other end of that target_, _with her stupid hair and her eyes_.

His own carry dark circles beneath them from several sleepless nights in this poison paradise, something he regrets but doubts he could change even if he tried. He and his partner work side by side, with him gently adjusting her position and her stance until she begins to hit the target. "Show me again," Mercedes demands, trying to mimic his motions as she throws a knife of her own. "I can hit the target, but I'm not getting anywhere near the vital areas. That's gonna be a problem if we can't take down one of those Careers if they charge us, you know?"

"It doesn't matter if they do," Axel grimaces, watching his knife sink into the head of the dummy. "Everyone bleeds the same if you hit them right."

* * *

**End Note****: *screams internally* sooo another **_**long**_ **break between chapters. Huzzah! I feel like I didn't do so well with Ruben or Axel, so my apologies to Guesttwelve and Manny Siliezar in hindsight. I'll get them right eventually, I hope. Anyway, Chapter 15: When Lights Go Out (detailing Training **_**Night**_ **2) should hopefully not take as long, but seeing that finals week is coming up… I don't know. I'm super slow and I apologize. I also know that the alliances list isn't at the bottom, but I figure I'll put it at the end of the next chapter since that's when everything should be rock solid. **

**The submitter check-in deadline is whenever I get the private sessions complete. It's just a survey of opinions, and you will get 25 sponsor points. Readers can check in as well, because readers **_**can**_ **sponsor tributes. On a final note, the voting for the SYOT Awards 2019 have been open, as of December 1, all the way to December 31. Make sure to go vote for things you think deserve the recognition! **

**Have a great day/night you guys! :)**


	14. Chapter 14: When Lights Go Out

_With the lights out, it's less dangerous_

_Here we are now, entertain us_

_I feel stupid and contagious_

_Here we are now, entertain us_

-Nirvana, Smells Like Teen Spirit

* * *

**CHAPTER 14**

**WHEN LIGHTS GO OUT**

* * *

**Brita Edison **(**17**), **District 3 Tribute**

She's spent about two full days in the Capitol so far, and the only thing she's found remotely fascinating is technology. The level of advancement here is far superb to that of her home in District 3. And despite the fact that she's never gotten the opportunity to use half of these wonderful gadgets in her lifetime thus far, Brita can't help but enjoy the fruits of that labor.

The only thing that's a problem is the twelve-year-old boy who seems to be trying to attach himself to her hip the whole time they've been here. _If anyone could repel any potential allies, it's Ed._ Training was stopped by the head trainer - a _gorgeous_ woman with pale lavender hair that Brita _may_ have spent a little too long staring at - and Edward had made his way right back to her. In fact, the boy from Eight had made a point to avoid joining the two of them on the elevator, folding his arms and waiting for the next one instead. _All because Ed can't shut the hell up_. Brita rolls her eyes skyward to the burning lights that illuminate the elevator, not caring that they make her vision spotty for a moment. It's taken every bone in her body to not clamp a hand over Edward's mouth as he details what he learned today and how excited he is for the private sessions tomorrow.

_I still have no idea what I'm going to show the Head Gamemaker_. She frowns. Today she had attempted to get a feel for some of the weaponry before lunch once the Careers had deserted the station. Despite the 'no fighting' rule that is enforced in the Training Center, her heart had been hammering the whole time she was there, hoping the Careers wouldn't come back. _The last thing I want is to be targeted in the bloodbath_.

She had seen the pair from District 5 over by the edible plants station, seemingly getting into a heated argument. The girl's face had been flushed, her hands animatedly showing her discontent with the boy. But he remained very calm, stoic almost, and Brita had to admire how well he handled the situation. _I've been wanting to see where their heads are at_, she muses. _After all, they're bound to be better allies than Edward_. In a way, they are her friends from home, with one seeming emotional and the other elegant. But in many ways, it sticks in the back of Brita's head that the two of them are _nothing_ like her friends. She isn't sure if she can put faith in _any_ of the tributes, given that they'd likely stab her in the back at any moment. But for whatever reason, she feels herself gravitating toward the pair of them.

_Maybe they could use an extra ally too_. _It's worth a shot, so long as they don't slow me down_. After all, ever since her parents went missing, Brita and her brother have had to look out for themselves first and foremost, regardless of whoever else held a place in their lives. _Self-sufficiency_. She recalls giving the homeless man a few coins the day of the Reaping. It's too bad her act of good karma couldn't save Brita from years of externally inflicted selfishness. She realizes that subconsciously, her hand has flown up to clutch at her necklace, a whip-thin cord with a single data file latched on to the end. The data loaded onto it is what has motivated her to succeed these past few years, since no one else can push her to do so except herself. Pictures and audio clips of her parents, Adalia and Petyr Edison, taken from their ancient home computer before the device had been irreversibly destroyed by some kind of supervirus.

_It's all I have left of them_. Part of her wants to know where they are and what the Capitol has done with them, but she knows it'll be easier to presume they're dead. Brita forces herself to let her hand hang by her side again, and is thankful when the painfully slow elevator ride comes to a grinding halt, the doors springing open with a _ding_. Edward grabs her hand, his own clammy with sweat, and she flinches as he tries to drag her out. Within a split second she's made up her mind, and disentangles herself from him. He turns back with a gasp, and she almost feels bad for leaving him on his own. _Almost_. Instead, she hurriedly pushes the buttons to close the doors, and takes a deep breath, using her middle finger to push the button with a '5'. It glows, and she exhales as the elevator lifts her up once again. Her head is racing, thinking of the millions of ways this can go wrong, as the elevator carriage lifts her toward the fifth floor.

She knows she doesn't quite have enough training to see her through an entire Hunger Games, but her social interactions the past day and a half have been pretty limited, despite the rules of the Training Center being fairly free-range. So long as tributes are back within their apartments by midnight, the Peacekeepers she has heard checking their apartment both nights won't give anyone trouble.

Brita can feel her mouth go dry as she enters the fifth floor, and she needs to stand on the dark landing for a moment collecting herself. With the lights off, she feels calmer. More confident, and when she feels confident enough, she knocks on the door hoping that someone inside hears the noise.

They do, and it is the boy who opens the door, giving her a strange look. She takes a moment to appreciate how well-groomed he is: his short black hair, which resembles steel wool in texture, is brushed very neatly and where her training suit is creased and wrinkled at the joints, his somehow seems spotless and sleek. "Uh, hey," she says, making her voice sound as laid-back as possible. "I'm Brita, from District Three. Can I come in, or are you two busy?" she asks, noticing the girl behind him staring from the couch. She gives Brita a friendly wave, making her smile in relief.

The boy turns around to look at his partner, a growl seemingly brushed off his lips, and admits her inside. "I'm Sorrel," he says with resignation, "and she's N-"

"Nyx!" the girl pipes from the couch. "Don't you dare give her my full name," she scolds him lightly, a grin tugging at the corners of her lips.

Brita walks in, a little unsure of herself. "Nice to meet you guys," she grins. "I've been meaning to talk to you guys if I had the chance, and I didn't want you guys to think I only wanted to be allies after the scoring happens. You know?" She surveys the two faces in front of her; Sorrel is looking a little disgruntled but Nyx is beaming from ear to ear.

"Really? I had been meaning to talk to you too," Nyx says, seeming to perk up. "The more the merrier, you know?" The latter of what she is saying seems more aimed at Sorrel, who Brita is having a hard time getting a read on. "I'd love to have you join us!" Brita is grinning now, her heart feeling lighter with the prospect of not having to face these Games alone. After all, the Careers this year are of a larger number, and all of them look like they know how to kill her a dozen different ways.

Sorrel shakes his head. "Why do you think you're a good member for our alliance anyway?"

She can't help but feel taken aback by the sudden question. "What do you mean…?"

"The two of us are just fine without you," he says, cutting Nyx off before she can voice an objection. "Why should we make space for anyone else, least of all you?"

_Ouch_. She can tell it's not intended to be insulting, but it feels like a punch to the gut. "I'm useful. I saw you two practicing survival skills today. I learned a lot of things like that in school." This seems to be news to the boy. "I practiced a little with weapons today, too, when the Careers had left." A shift in his eyes tells her she's struck a chord with him. _Maybe he values weapon skills? I only got about an hour of pointers from the trainers…_

"Fine, so you have some skills. But how do we know you won't slow us down in the Cornucopia? It's easier to look for one person than it is to keep track of two."

"I'm fast. I can grab supplies for the group too," she says defensively. "I promise I won't slow you down." _How strange that just a few minutes ago I was debating if they'd slow _me _down_. She sighs and flips her auburn hair over her shoulder. "So? Am I in?" she asks him, hoping her voice doesn't betray how off-guard she feels. Sorrel shrugs and looks Nyx in the eyes, his expression seeming to soften a great deal.

"I don't know," is the answer she gets.

* * *

**Castiel Bomber **(**18**), **District 1 Tribute**

His muscles are aching, and as they shuffle into the apartment, all he wants to do is throw himself at the couch and bury his face in the cushions. _Training was hard today_, he reflects as he makes a beeline for his bedroom. After training had released them, he and the rest of the Career Pack had hung around in the cafeteria until the trainers had kicked them out so they could prepare for the private sessions tomorrow.

They'd broken off with the promise to meet in District 4's apartment instead. Castiel and Crescentia had spent the walk and subsequent elevator ride discussing the future of the Career Pack. With her dignified nature and amicable confidence, he's quickly found that she is much easier to click with than Nike from back home. Although she wasn't the selected volunteer, she's proven herself to be invaluable to him. _I haven't seen her weapon skills very much_, he considers. _But her social game is really helping me keep these Careers glued together._ After Hela's temper flared up following the Parade, he had worried that she might ditch the alliance altogether, but with careful navigation from both he and Crescentia, she had been brought back into the fold. _And I'm more than happy to let her have that redheaded fuck-up beside her if it makes her feel more comfortable here_.

He doesn't quite know where the alliance with the boy from Eleven - Asher - came from, but all he knows is that he feels slightly uneasy whenever the boy is around. Not to mention whatever Crescentia and Alton see in Siren, being mostly untrained. The sole conversation he's had with the gorgeous girl from Four has revealed she's at least been trained in the basics of spearwork. _And she's strong enough, I guess._ The issue with expanding the ranks of the trained Careers with unrefined outsiders is that though it makes it easier to hunt down the rest of the tributes, it makes the alliance more likely to fracture.

_Some things require sacrifice_, he reminds himself as he closes the door gently behind him, immediately discarding his training shirt. The supple material the shirt is made from sticks to his sweaty skin, and he groans as he shucks it off, tossing it into a heap on the floor. Time is of the essence, with the night rapidly aging, and he tries to put thoughts of all the weaker points of the alliance out of his mind. Instead he strips completely from his uniform and steps into the black-tiled shower, cranking the faucet to high heat and turning off the lights. The water is comforting against his skin, soothing the dull ache in his muscles and replacing it with the simple pressure of heat. He closes his eyes and scrubs the sweat out of his curly blond hair. When the lights have gone out, Castiel allows himself to decompress, to reflect.

_To think about Charms_. A twinge in his heart makes him gasp, the water making him splutter. _So much for a relaxing shower_, he groans to himself. He's tried to keep himself busy, and drown his feelings out. He can feel the steam against his skin, and knows it'll be fogging the glass by the time he gets out. _It doesn't matter_. His mind is now diving in a downward spiral. A sick feeling forms in his gut as he remembers his boyfriend's smile as he confesses his love, both in the chilly room in the Justice Building and on television the night before his Games, holding up the same bracelet Castiel wears now. _I'll wear it until I'm dead. Until I win and make good on my promise to him_. A wretched sob escapes from his throat, muffled by the sound of the shower water cascading around him, bouncing off his skin and raining to the floor.

_I need to cement myself as the leader. I need to do well tomorrow, so I can give Charms what he deserves_. With that thought, he turns the shower knob to the right, and relishes the shock of the cold water replacing the steam. He knows he's done well so far, but he's still unsure of how solid the allegiance of the others is. _And the last thing I want is to be stabbed in the back, like Talisa did to Markus last year. I can't let that happen to me, not with what's on the line._

Her voice cuts through the repetitive patter of water, breaking his focus. "Castiel, are you okay?" Crescentia asks from behind the door.

He sighs. "Yeah!" comes his reply, his voice sounding too chipper. "Sorry, I'll be out in just a sec, I forgot how great a hot shower feels after training," he tells her, trying to justify the lengthy shower. _The other Careers might already be waiting for us_. He kills the water by turning the knob to the right and wraps a towel around his waist before stepping out to look for a clean set of clothes, pushing past Crescentia.

"No rush," she grins. "Do you think it's worth smuggling the vodka over, like we did on the night of the parade? Or nah?" She pauses, pursing her lips. "You _sure_ you're good, Castiel?"

Castiel nods, towel-drying his hair now that he's clothed in something less restrictive. "Honestly just a bit nervous, so bring it," he says, grinning widely. "The sessions tomorrow really make or break us as an alliance. If, say… Hela scores higher than me, then I'm not the leader anymore. And you can bet Asher will be her right-hand man. I don't think any of us want that. I mean he calls _himself_ the 'Wolfchild!' I'll admit, he has some skills, but he's too cocky. Hell, I'm not sure he even takes this whole thing seriously, even though we're _literally_ letting him tag along."

Crescentia shrugs. "I think he's nice enough, but I agree. We don't need to create any unnecessary rifts between us and Hela. If she splits off from us too soon, we might be in trouble." _True_. _But where does that put everyone else? With me, or on their own?_ His mentor Aurelia had told him it would be hard to manage five other personalities, but it's harder still for him with dissent already rearing its ugly head within the group. The pair of them head to the door, calling a quick goodbye to their escort, who is standing at the kitchen counter nursing a glass of wine.

He glances at Crescentia as they head for the elevator, letting her walk in front of him. She's right: duplicity and inner conflict are often what crumbles the Career Pack. He can't even _remember_ the last time all six Careers made it to the end. _And for all I know, she might be the biggest liar of them all_.

And he can't stand liars.

* * *

**Winston Thorn **(**18**), **District 7 Tribute**

"See, she looks like a _stork_," Padds remarks, pointing a finger at the television. Winston looks at the screen - a model identical to the one they watched the Reapings on not two days ago - and sees a Capitol woman walk across the screen. She is dressed in a frilly white vest and skirt, with pink leg-length boots and a face caked in makeup. He has to admit, the boots are ridiculous and totally impractical, but the comparison Padds made doesn't quite sit well with him. Luckily he doesn't have to ask, as the girl sitting in between them does.

"What's a stork?" Bash asks curiously, her hand rummaging through the smooth glass bowl she's holding in her lap. Arley and Padds brought them over 'popcorn' from the District 9 apartment. Apparently people from where they live eat this all the time. It's salty, and an unnatural yellow color. Padds informs them that it looks a bit different than what they're used to at home, but the flavor is good enough to get them through a few terrible soap operas.

"You don't know what a stork is?" Arley exclaims, peeking her head out from beside her district partner. "They're in _all_ the nursery stories. Every kid gets told we're dropped off by them at birth, but the adults are all lying of course. There's no way a bird could carry a baby even if that bird is pretty big."

"You don't have storks in District 7?" Padds asks, his tone incredulous. "I thought with all those woods, you'd be bound to have wetlands. We've got a lot of marshy areas in Nine, but we aren't allowed to go in them because they're afraid we'll get lost. Sometimes you'll see a stork fly overhead if it's not too hot outside." He talks almost wistfully, and Winston feels a pang in his chest. After a few whirlwind days since his name was picked from the Reaping bowl, he hasn't had much time to stop and think about much from home besides his on-and-off girlfriend, Bloom.

"I guess not," he says, shrugging. "We don't have popcorn either, but if you guys are willing to bring us more, we'll let you guys come over here when they're announcing the scores tomorrow night." The only reason they had switched from District 9's apartments was that one of their mentors, a grizzled man missing an eye, had come out of his room to chastise them for being too loud. He had showed up after the conclusion of the muffin war, and ushered he and Bash out with a bleary look in his eyes.

But now that they mention it, he misses everything about home. The tall towering trees and the birds that chirp as they flit endlessly between the tall spindly branches in the canopy. He misses the smell of sawdust in the lumberyard air, the feeling of flannel beneath his fingers, and the feeling of rock-solid certainty with his surroundings. Instead, that has all been replaced by the uncertain future as the salivating maw of death draws closer and closer. There is another lull in the conversation as they watch a man in a chase after the stork woman, calling out her name. _At least it is a comfortable silence_, he decides. _There's never really any tension between us_. If things were different, he would have never been able to get to know these three, even though he has been to the Ridgewood restaurant a few times on a date with Bloom. _But it feels natural to be around them_, he decides. _Maybe that's what is different about them._

Bash holds up the bowl. "Nothing but kernels left," she declares. Winston gets up and snatches the bowl, heading over to the sink to run it under the water and get the grease out of the bowl. _The Capitolites would probably leave it for their mute servants to take care of, but after training with weapons all day, it feels good to do something menial again_.

"Are you guys nervous for the private sessions tomorrow?" Padds asks the girls, and he sees a slow nod from Arley on the couch.

Bash shrugs. "I think it'll be fine… we just have to do something impressive." Winston can't help but agree with her. _Exactly like impressing a panel of judges._ It's hard to get a high score as an outlier tribute, but after spending a day learning axe fighting techniques with a trainer to build up skills with a familiar lumberyard weapon, Winston is feeling more confident about his chances. _If anyone scores high, it'll be Ruben_, he decides. The boy from Ten had bested several different sparring partners throughout the latter half of the day, earning some attention from the Gamemakers.

He had considered asking the boy to join their alliance, so they would number almost as large as the Careers. They now have the feral looking boy from Eleven in their ranks, but Ruben gives off the same vibes that boy does. _He's just calmer about it. Deadly, even_. Winston feels uncomfortable whenever the boy walks near him in the training room, even without exchanging a single word with him. _I don't want to go near him_, he decides.

"I'm a bit nervous," he admits aloud. "But between the four of us we should rack up enough points with the crowd to get some sponsor gifts. _Someone_ is going to love us. The only issue is what the scores will make everyone else think of us." _After all, the scores usually make or break you_. He's heard if Careers targeting outliers for high scores, to eliminate competition. But on the other hand, a higher score would mean he isn't messed with by anyone else.

He runs a hand through his hair, shaking it back into its normal wild state. _It's more nerve-wracking than I'd like to admit_. _What if I screw up and they give me a one or a two?_ He sighs and rejoins his allies on the couch, grinning at Arley. "We're gonna do great! You know, I wonder if we'll get sent any popcorn in the arena," he muses, happy to see a smile break though Arley's face.

"That would be great!" she says enthusiastically, her excitement reminding him a bit too much of his sister. He doesn't know how to feel anymore, with all that's going on. The pressure is a sensory overload, the Capitol so fabricated with plastic lies and falseness that he can't see the truth in any of it apart from the group of tributes around him. _All I want is to be back home, safe. With everyone I care about. With Bloom, and maybe some popcorn. The real kind_.

He can't stop himself from the _want_ to go back. Winston Thorn is normally not a worried person, but with the dire straits they're sailing through, he has cause enough. _These three… they're my family right now_, he has to tell himself as the soap opera ends with a dramatic fade to black and the room goes dark with it. With the lights off there is nothing left but the primal senses, and Winston can hear them breathing beside him. He can _feel_ their presence. The moment only lasts for a brief couple of seconds before Padds takes the remote and starts the next show. The harsh light emerges from the glassy darkness of the screen, illuminating the room in the same sickly blue glow that was absent just a second ago.

But now Winston feels more grounded. The worries are still in the back of his mind, but he feels sharper and more focused. There's a goal he needs to complete, and tomorrow he might just be able to do it.

How well he will perform, he doesn't know. The future is still grainy, like the old tapes from back home. _But if I can give it my best shot, what could go wrong?_

* * *

**Asher 'Wolfchild' Foster **(**17**), **District 11 Tribute**

The Wolfchild has been angry with the Capitol since they got here. First, they confiscated his token. The hidden claws in the gloves Caleb had given him were seized by authorities the moment he stepped foot on the train, and when it didn't pass inspection, they had not been given back to him. _Damn rat bastards_, he curses. _Everyone else probably kept their tokens_. If it weren't for the vendetta that the white dogs have against he and his friends, he wouldn't have wound up in this mess to begin with. Of course, he didn't have to volunteer, but what else does he have to lose? _Might as well make them shit themselves when I come back and they can't touch me._

He had tried to intimidate others by cackling as loud as possible during the parade, but being dressed as a scarecrow stuffed with dry itchy hay certainly didn't sell the image. _But joining the Careers definitely does_. _I wonder if the Capitol will root for me now that I'm allied with their precious favorites?_ He scoffs, staring at the door while he and the others wait for Castiel and Crescentia to arrive. To be fair, it's the reason he accepted Hela's offer to induct him into the alliance. _If not, no doubt the Gamemakers would have sent something after me_. But there was something else he has been left with following their conversation in the dark. Hela is dangerous, sure. But Asher Foster has _always _been one to play with fire.

"When do you think they'll get here?" Siren asks the group, her fingertips dancing as they drum across the table.

Moses shrugs and grins at her. "Probably soon," he says, winking at Alton standing behind her even though he is addressing Siren. "Castiel doesn't seem to me like someone who shows up late." As if on cue, there is a sharp rap on the door and the burly boy from Four goes to open it.

"Hey!" he shouts, gesturing to invite them in. Crescentia plunks a bottle of vodka on the table. "This again?" Alton groans good-naturedly, stepping aside so Siren can greet the pair.

"Oh, come on," she teases him, brushing her blonde hair out of her face. "You know how fun it is to decompress. We _need_ this," she says as if being challenged by the others. _The thrills of life are easily indulged by these six_, he muses.

"For _once_, I agree with you," Castiel jokes. "The sessions are tomorrow, and I think we could all use a little help to forget about it for a while." Hela stands from her seat next to him, putting an icy hand on his shoulder to steady herself as she maneuvers out of the tight space. It's like a little spark of electricity, and he can't help but scrunch up his neck when she's gone. It takes very little work to motivate them all to get a drink, with the pair from District Four even taking a bottle of rum from their own liquor cabinet. Siren starts to mix drinks for them, as the conversation flows between the Careers.

"Personally, I think we'll all do well," Moses says. "The Gamemakers always favor Careers." _And what great joy that has brought the rest of us all these years_.

Castiel lifts a shot glass in mock toast. "To Miss Vetura, and good _fucking_ scores!" Asher frowns, wondering why the chipper attitude always feels so forced around the guy.

"Hear hear!" Hela laughs, a sharp sound with a haughty weight to it. She slides back into her seat at the table. She takes one of the shot glasses and raises it to her lips. "Think you can keep up, Wolf Boy?" she asks him, her dark eyes alluring as she drains the glass of its strong liquid. _So we're playing that game_, he scoffs, filling his own and drinking. The liquid burns at the back of his throat, tasting like toasted sugar. _We've been playing a game of cat-and-mouse all day_, he supposes. The two had followed each other at the training stations, already competing to show off their skills. Where Asher's own skills had been strong but unrefined, the elegance Hela possesses when using her weapons is a telltale sign of years of practice, and he can't help but allow his eyes to stray over her body as she spars with a trainer.

"Isn't rum supposed to go with something else?" he asks her, using his teeth to scrape the taste from his tongue.

"Sure," says Hela. "But it's more fun this way. Think you can't stomach it?" she taunts him. With this he narrows his eyes, clenching his fingers around the glass as he refills it and stares directly at her. _Maybe they do need alcohol to loosen them up_, he observes, watching the others stand at the counter mixing drinks and laughing. Siren is shaking something in a tin while batting her eyelashes at a seemingly disinterested Castiel. _Where are their mentors, anyway? Mine is always hanging around the apartment._ It hits him a second later. _They're out securing sponsorships._ It makes him hate them even more, the thought of rich Capitol patrons lining up around the block to bet on the odds of _children_.

They make him sick. _They never have to work a day in their lives_, he denigrates them. _Do they even feel emotions, like fear? Loss? Love? _Surely they must love, for love makes you weak and the colorful citizens of the Capitol are prime examples. _And the one thing I've never had_. He drinks again, this time for sorrow. Hela seems to pick up on the sudden shift in his attitude, and sets her glass down. "You want to get a little fresh air? We'll only be missed for a moment."

"Sure," he agrees, following her out to the balcony. _Thankfully these apartments all have the same layout, even if theirs is a bit fancier than mine._ They peer over the edge, silent for a moment as they watch a procession of brightly-dressed people walking down the street. Her skin gleams with the haze of lights surrounding them, and he watches her turn and grip the ornate stone balustrade tightly, turning her predatory gaze to the unsleeping city. "How can they be so _festive_ if they're sending us to our death? Don't you think it would weigh on their conscience just a _little_ bit?" Even back in Eleven, the unruliest of gangs had _some_ code of moral compassion. _And we didn't kill people for fun, either_.

"Because that's just the way the world works," Hela says, her tone taking a dangerous edge as she nears him. Her breath smells sweet, like rum, and for a moment he wonders what it would cost him to lean in and taste it on her lips. To run his fingers through her silky black hair. _She'd probably throw me over the balcony, and the damn Capitol would be a tribute short._ Instead he nods in agreement. "There's always a king on the hill. Like Castiel, for example," she murmurs. "And like the training exercise we do back home, someone always knocks them off. It's just a matter of time before they do."

A thrill runs through his chest at this, and his breath feels cold when he exhales. _There's something about her…_ Something about this girl that he wants to crack open, to dissect. _Something more that I can see through her, past the emerald blizzards in her eyes_. Time isn't on his side to find it, and neither is the disposition of the girl in question.

Instead, he returns to the balustrade, mind racing over the shape of things to come. An excitement is in his veins like the kind he would get back in Eleven when he was under the lash, or when he dragged the jackal back the night after they sent him to guard the fields. _When I earned my name_.

_It's the thrill of victory. The thrill of feeling alive._

And Asher knows that somehow, he will find it with her too.

* * *

**Mercedes Benson **(**16**), **District 6 Tribute**

The Panem skyline is glittering like a thousand uncut gems, the refracted light spilling a multitude of colors into the starless sky. Even home in Six, where the pollution threatened to drown out the stars, they would still break free from the inky darkness to shine down on the broken world below. But here in the Capitol, she wonders if they've gotten rid of the stars, like the Gamemakers can change an arena on a whim. _Have they gone so far as to destroy them?_

"I wouldn't put it past them," Axel snarls. She blinks, having momentarily forgotten his presence in the garden beside her. And his was not an easy presence to _forget_, as for reasons she could not name it held the same weight as her girlfriend's back home. The pair of them had ditched their training uniforms back in their apartments and opted for something more comfortable before taking the elevator up to the top of their roof. With two separate towers housing the tributes, the Careers all sleep below the two of them as the District 6 apartment is situated at the top of the first tower. _It makes me uneasy that they might come up here too_, she thinks. After all, tributes have free range of the training center so long as it's before curfew.

"I guess," she says, more out of keeping the conversation going than out of personal interest in it. _Axel wasn't very nice at all today_. Mercedes is starting to ponder if she made the right decision in allying with him. "They have complete control over everything anyway," she remarks. Her partner snorts from beside her, his dark brown eyes devoid of emotion.

"They're all failures," he explains. "They control us, but their own selfishness controls _them_." Mercedes bites her tongue, trying to refrain from explaining to him that she's seen him be selfish too. "They're so wrapped up in fancy things to even notice that they don't have a shred of real dignity in their bodies."

He turns to face her for the first time; one half of his face is illuminated by the haze of skyline lights, the other by the steady purple glow that emanates from the UV lighting above the nighttime plants in the garden. "Wouldn't you agree?" _No. That's treasonous. That's wrong. They're people too. _Mercedes has no love for them either given their oppressive nature, but the outright contempt Axel has for them makes her wonder if there is a subliminal reasoning. _It's getting harder and harder to have a real conversation with him_, she bemoans. _Axel's always in a bad mood. Like Uriana_. She can't help her mind drifting back to her abusive girlfriend, as though Axel is a very different person physically, their shared contempt for everything has begun to wear her out.

She takes a deep breath, trying to gather the courage to tell him how she's beginning to feel. _Trying to gather the courage to tell Uriana too_, she thinks. _In a way_. _That I'm not just someone's pawn_. "I don't know if allying with you was the right choice for me, Axel," she tries to say gently, even though she knows it must seem totally out of the blue. "These last couple of days haven't been very easy for me… I know we're district partners but I think it might be better if we go separate ways and just hope we don't meet in the arena. I think I'll be better off without you dr-" she's cut off by the murderous glare on his face, and he takes a menacing step forward.

"What do you mean, Mercedes?" her ally asks, his voice low with sudden contempt. "Why would you be better off without me?"

"I-I just think that-" she begins to stammer as the blazing garden UV lights that the nighttime plants grow under begins to flicker. The pale purple light starts to wrestle with the creeping shadows, contorting the plants around the two of them. "I'm not sure we can look out for each other," she manages to say. "I don't know if I can trust you like I thought I could."

Axel's face seems to twist into a sneer as he stares at her. "Then don't ally with me, Mercedes," he says with a deadly calm in his voice. "If you're so damn _perfect_, then get the hell out!" His glare seems to bore into her soul, and she takes a step back, shivering. The movement is distorted by the rapid flickering of the light, and she starts to feel lightheaded as fear takes form in her gut. He doesn't stop there, and like her girlfriend, continues instead, taking a second step toward her. "Because if I knew you had a different agenda than this, I wouldn't have allied with _you_ either, Mercedes!" The yell seems to ring out across the rooftop and into the nighttime void, though she is certain it is lost in the thrum of Capitol nightlife beneath them. "I _knew_ you were a lost cause," he tells her icily, and it feels like the breath is sucked out of her. _Lost cause. Lost cause. Lost cause._ As the words bounce around in her head, the light dies, leaving the rooftop shrouded in darkness. Now she is even more acutely aware of Axel's presence, and the prickling sensation of the plant behind her as it digs into her back.

She doesn't speak, and the two of them are locked in a silent war in the dark. When the lights have gone out in the garden, she feels nervous. The tension ties knots in her chest that do not unravel when she hears him start to leave. The sound of his footsteps stop for a moment, and all she can hear is the bustling city below. "You know where to find me," he calls over his shoulder. If you really want to jump ship, I suggest you watch your back," he tells her. The words make her feel chilly, and she is thankful when the roof access door is slammed shut behind him. It's only then that she lets the hot tears out, dripping lukewarm trails down her cheeks. _How did this get so bad?_ _What am I supposed to do from here_?

Never before in her life has Mercedes felt so crushingly _alone_. She takes her hair out of its neat bun and lets it fall down to her shoulders, the breeze dragging curls of it across her face. _I'm such a mess_… she frowns, wiping the tears away with the sleeve of her shirt as the sobs shudder through her body. _What do I do? How do I get out of this alive?_

The darkness ends with the UV light flickering back on, and by then she's made her decision. She wipes the last few tears from her skin and tucks her straight black hair behind her ear, slipping the hair tie on her wrist. The world had never cared for Mercedes Benson, and she had begun to stop caring for it.

_But there has to be something else in Axel_, she assures herself.

_And I can't do this alone._

* * *

***TW for suicidal thoughts***

**Reynolds Pelliarch **(**16**), **District 12 Tribute**

As he stands at the edge of the precipice of the roof, Reynolds Pelliarch watches the world below with a hundred thoughts rushing through his brain. The streets are ablaze with light, but upon the top of the roof the world is dark and quiet. There is some kind of celebration going on. The loud, tinny music reaches his ears, but starts to fade away into whispers on the wind the closer it gets.

With Mariela occupied now by their new alliance with Tangaria, he finally has gotten the opportunity to come up here alone. With the lights out, Reynolds can finally _breathe_ for a moment. It's something he hasn't gotten the chance to do since the moment they entered the Capitol, caught up in the pageantry of the parades and the training. _They've all been breathing down my neck_, he thinks. Reynolds stretches an arm out toward the dark, starless sky and flexes his fingers outward, staring at the shape. _Why am I even here?_ His chest feels compressed as he stares down again, at the drop from the edge. The ground is so many feet below… certainly enough to ensure that the Capitol wouldn't be able to have him as a player in the Games.

_Enough to die_. He takes a steadying breath, the blood rushing in his head drowning out the tinny music. _All I wanted was to get away_. _Away from the suffering, the whispers. _From the stench of coal dust, which makes him queasy. From the overbearing presence of his caretaker in the light of the death of his _real_ family. Mr. Samuels was a nice enough man, but he was blinded to Reynolds. To the slow and bitter demise of a sixteen-year-old boy at the hands of guilt and sorrow. _And it all hinged on drawing a straw._ Tears begin to leak, unbidden, from his eyes.

_Live by chance… die by design_.

He scrubs his eyes hard with the pads of his fingers until his vision becomes starry and blurred when he opens his eyes. The dark swims before him, as uncertain as the undulation of waves. The world begins to teeter the closer he inches off the edge, his heels planted firmly on the granite roof. _It'll be over. For what they did to me, my family name. It'll be over and I can finally join them_.

_I deserve it_.

In a way, the Capitol does too. To see what they've done to him; a deed they probably don't remember. They've forgotten, but it is these thoughts which keep Reynolds awake in the dark. Awake when the lights go out, so the sorrow can burrow deeper in a heart riddled with holes of sickness.

A hand on his wrist makes him pause, making his scars itch where it grips his skin. Then, wordless, that hand jerks him back away from the captivating light of the street below. _Away from the one thing that can finish this._ He will die on his own terms, Hunger Games be damned. Reynolds claws for the edge, a yell escaping his lips, but four hands are on his body now, cementing him in place. He opens his eyes in the dim light and sees that he lost a shoe in the brief scuffle. He looks up and sees two faces peering down at him, not masked in Peacekeeper black but _familiar_.

"What were you doing on the edge of the roof, Reynolds?" Mariela asks, fear filling her voice. This makes him blink in confusion, and he draws his knees to his chest, trying to shake the fuzziness out of his head. _Why would they care what I'm doing anyway?_

"Nothing, just enjoying the view. They have a parade going on or something, see?"

"You know there's a force field at the bottom of the building, right?" Tangaria asks him, breathing shakily. "It wouldn't have worked, Reynolds."

This makes his face break out into an expression of anguish, and he tries to rein it in a second after, knowing they've already seen how he feels. _Lying didn't do anything_, he thinks, suddenly feeling angry that these girls won't leave him alone. His cheeks feel hot and his head feels as if it is swimming in a sea of pain and confusion.

One of them stoops down and a pair of arms encircle him, hugging him tight. His breathing slows and fresh tears spring to the corner of his eyes. Her hair is soft against his cheek, his chin rested on her thin shoulder. "Hey," she breathes, her voice soothing. "Hey. Breathe." He does, releasing the tension in his chest with an exhale. A second face with dark curly hair framing it stares blankly back at him, eyes filled with gloom. His hands encircle Tangaria's back, and he _breathes_ with someone else now. _Not alone_.

Mariela drops to one knee as he fills his lungs and exhales, thoughts suspended in a slow molasses. "Reynolds, you can fight through this. I promise," she says, her voice cracking with sadness. "You can _do_ this, okay?"

"You have something to live for," Tangaria whispers to him, her voice sweet like nectar in his ear. "You may not know it yet. But you can't give up on yourself." She draws back and looks him in the eyes, her own shrouded in an emotion so intense that he almost chokes out a sob meeting her gaze.

Mariela sits next to him on the ground and rests her head against his shoulder, her hand holding his very tightly, as if the younger girl has no intentions of ever letting him go. They sit like that for a good long while, listening to the ambient noises around them, so much different from the quiet moaning breeze of District 12. The pain is still there, rooted deep in his heart. But with these two by his side, and Tangaria's whispers still resonating in his ear, he feels the tiny spark of hope flare in his heart.

Maybe the Games don't have to be his ticket out.

* * *

**Siren Thalassa **(**17**), **District 4 Tribute**

The Games are her ticket in. Being a bit of a loner in District 4 given the circumstances of her being born outside of Panem, Siren has few enough friends as it is. _He never wanted anything to do with me either_, she thinks bitterly. Her father is the only familial relation she knows of, and she can't even remember what he's supposed to _look_ like. _He hasn't ever come to visit me in the Community Home_. Maybe being brought back in from the sea is why so many people avoided her, as if it were bad luck to be born outside of this totalitarian regime of Panem. _Maybe it's why I visit the bars so much. Why I steal from the sailors and crab-catchers with their noses deep in their cups. _It may be revenge, but it feels good to heist the money out of their pockets and slip out into the night with her earnings.

_I've picked his dad's pockets before_, she thinks, glancing at Alton while she stirs herself a vodka-and-tonic. It must be why he looks so familiar, if she's seduced his father before and left him penniless. _I wonder if Alton ever knew that his father was robbed_. Surely not, as the man had been too drunk to stand.

Castiel is laughing, doubled over at something Moses has said, and the dark-skinned boy is laughing himself, hand braced on the counter as he takes another swig of his drink. _Everyone's getting kinda tipsy_, she remarks, watching as Asher says something to Hela and they get up to go leave after several shots of rum each. It comes naturally to her then, after she's had enough spirits in her to feel airy on the inside. Siren begins to sing, like she would to the ocean and its many secrets lurking beneath the surface. Her voice is unsure at first, and unnoticed, but grows stronger with vibrato as she sings her own song, lyrics she has belted out at the crashing waves. Lyrics which she has sung quietly when the world looks the other way.

_After all of this time_

_After all of these seasons_

_After your one decision_

_To go to the water for reason_

_Now it's only the ocean and you_

Siren finishes the first verse, and has slowly enraptured the rest of the Careers. Crescentia stands up and wobbles a little, righting herself before walking over to Siren. "Give me your hands," she says, a smile on her face. She guides Siren's hands as the pair begins to waltz slowly to the dreary sailor's tune. The other girl's steps are elegant even after a few drinks, and though Siren struggles to keep up from her limited dancing experiences back home, Crescentia makes it seem effortless and easy. _I'm impressed, and I'd say everyone else is too_, she thinks. It is clearly the blonde girl's forte. Crescentia's footwork makes her look as though she is rising and falling, much like the undulant waves of the very ocean Siren is singing about.

Siren steps to the back and slides to the left as gracefully as she can, all the while singing to match the speed of the waltz, but she begins to realize that Crescentia is conjuring up this choreography as she goes along, moving with the shifting pitches and cadences of Siren's voice.

_All of these lines_

_Will all be erased soon_

_They go out with the tide_

_Then come back with the waves_

_It's only the ocean and you_

Moses and Alton stand next to each other with their backs against the counter, and she forces herself not to roll her eyes. _Clearly Alton still hasn't taken my advice_. She knows she's right too: a history of the subtle arts of seduction have led her to read romantic signals like no one else she knows.

They slow down toward the end, and as Siren finishes singing to a round of applause from the other five Careers, with Asher and Hela having come back from their conversation halfway through. Siren sees her dancing partner beaming across from her. "That was _amazing_!" the other girl tells her. "But why did you choose that song…? It was beautiful, but so melancholy…" Siren can feel the tips of her ears burning and is glad they're hidden by the onyx cascades of her hair. Normally, she will try and stay out of the limelight. _I get plenty of attention down on the waterfront_. But somehow it feels good to have shared her ability with this tipsy group of would-be killers.

Siren shrugs. "I sing all the time back home. Anytime I'm not working with the trawlers, I sit on the cliffs and sing," she reveals to Crescentia, choosing to leave out her other pastime of seducing sailors for secrets, or enough golden coins to slip through her fingers. There was nothing more satisfying than conning a man out of his riches and deepest secrets. Though Siren was too proud to offer herself up to warm the sheets next to them, she didn't mind flirting with the drunken men in order to get what she wanted. _It's not often they'd see someone like me anyway_, she thinks to herself, grinning. "It was a lot of fun. How did you learn to dance like that, anyway? You have some serious skills, Crescentia!"

Crescentia blushes as though the rest of the Careers have gone back to their side conversations, they are still watching the pair of them with mild interest. "I've been dancing since I was nine," she says. "It was hard to juggle my lessons with training at the Academy," she tells Siren as the two move out of the living room, joining the others at the glass table. "I dance on the regular with my partner, Turmalin."

"_Partner_ partner?" Siren queries, waggling her eyebrows.

"No," Crescentia laughs it off, her confidence seeming bludgeoned. "It isn't like that, not at all. We just dance, you know? He's really good at it," she tells Siren, voice taking a hint of bitterness at the end. "He's better than me because I have to balance training too, you know?"

Siren nods, though she doesn't quite understand. The other girl falls silent for a moment, until Asher gives the two of them a look from his seat at the other end of the table. "You guys put on quite the show," he says appreciatively, grinning at them. It's nothing like the baring of canines she has seen him do during a spar with a trainer, but a genuine smile.

"Thank you!" Siren exclaims, a little stunned that he would think so, after seeming so _brooding_ all day. _Maybe these people can be my friends, like the ones I could never seem to find back home_.

After all, constant independence gets boring after a while, and the fluidity of conversation is what enthralls her. The weight that tomorrow carries has all but evaporated from her mind, like the drying out of an ocean. The weight of the Games has been lifted too, of killing and all the macabre scenarios on the horizon.

For once, Siren Thalassa is comfortable with just _being_. And that is enough for her.

* * *

**Author's Note****: So another chapter down, and I want to apologize for the massive wait. I had finals week and another week taken up by a vacation. I hope that anyone who celebrates a holiday had a good one! As for the chapter, I don't like how it turned out, but it was nice to check in again with this group, as a lot of them haven't been given a pre-games POV yet. Reynolds' POV was hard for me to write… I think that it's a rather difficult subject either way you take it. For anyone who read that, or is living a life anything similar to Reynolds: you are still here. You are still breathing, and please fight yourself to do so. It might seem insuperable. I know that there are a hundred things I could say to you to try and tell you why it is worth it to keep breathing; that whatever maze you are trapped in is not endless. That you can fix your situation, that you are capable of understanding and loving yourself as you deserve to. You might not be able to see an alternative option, but I promise you that if you keep your head above the waves you will understand that there is enough in this world to live for. I promise that you have the tools at your disposal to do that, and while no one else can fix your problem for you or understand exactly what you are going through, please do not hesitate to reach out to someone. Anyone. You deserve to be taken seriously. You deserve all the love in the world, and most especially you deserve to feel comfortable with yourself, and love yourself. Despite whatever environment you are in, keep your head up. Watch out for the sunrises, because it is a new day. You can start over. You can figure this out, and you can heal yourself and your suffering. **

**Song credits: **_**Only the Ocean by Jack Johnson**_

* * *

_**Career Pack**_**: Castiel (D1M), Crescentia (D1F), Moses (D2M), Hela (D2F), Alton (D4M), Siren (D4F), Asher (D11M)**

_**Angsty Teen Romance?**_**: Sorrel (D5M), 'Nyx' (D5F)**

_**Planes, Trains and Automobiles**_**: Axel (D6M), Mercedes (D6F)**

_**Teens & Beans**_**: Winston (D7M), 'Bash' (D7F), 'Padds' (D9M), Arley (D9F)**

_**Damage Control**_**: Tangaria (D11F), Reynolds (D12M), Mariela (D12F)**

_**Loners**_**: Edward (D3M), Brita (D3F), Darnius (D8M), Halley (D8F), Ruben (D10M), 'Evie' (D10F)**

* * *

**One last thing before I end this long-running author's note: the wonderful ShunKazamis-Girl made me a blog for Death is the Rule! The link is on my profile, and I would highly encourage you to go check it out! It has a lot of information pertaining to the tributes, most notably a concrete character description as well as important information about them. It will be updated regularly with my chapters, whenever ShunKazamis-Girl gets the chance to do so. I think she did a wonderful job, and though it is a work in progress, it is definitely worth looking at.**

**That's all! As this is the last chapter I'll be uploading in 2019 (it's about 2 hrs away from 2020 where I am), I hope you all had a great year and I'm excited to keep this going in 2020 :)**

**Have a great New Years everyone! :)))**


	15. Chapter 15: Trial Without Error

_I was lost in the pages of a book full of death_

_Reading how we'll die alone_

_And if we're good we'll lay to rest_

_Anywhere we want to go_

-Audioslave, Like a Stone

* * *

**CHAPTER 15**

**TRIAL WITHOUT ERROR**

* * *

**Evanna Lynn** (**15**), **District 10 Tribute**

"Oh, come on, Evie," the boy sitting across from her says as he adds a spoonful of brown sugar to his oatmeal. "You're gonna do fine. Just don't get mad if they say anything to you."

"What are they gonna say to me, Ruben?" she asks. _I'm tired of everyone treating me like an inadequate little kid. The only thing the Gamemakers should tell me is "good job,'' she_ huffs as she fixes up herself a bowl of oatmeal, dousing the plain-looking oats in a half-inch layer of rich golden honey. Ruben makes a face at her choice, and swallows.

"First off, I don't know how you're going to eat that. Second, for all you know they'll dismiss you if they've seen enough. And I think it'll reflect poorly on your score if you have another meltdown like you did two days ago." She stops mid-chew and sticks out her tongue, glad that he gets up and moves his bowl over to the kitchen counter. _He was blocking the windows, after all_. She tries to focus on how the dazzling sunlight falls into patterns on the table rather than focusing on what he's told her. _I'm not gonna get mad_. _Why would I get mad in front of the Gamemakers?_

"I won't," she informs him, scooping a spoonful of honey-drenched oats into her mouth, then speaking through them to deliberately bother him. "I'm going to impress them though." Ruben shakes his head passive aggressively, and whether or not he realizes it, he is beginning to tick her off. "Well then, what are you going to show them?" she asks.

"I've got a couple hours to decide," he says elusively. With the runtime of each private session being about fifteen minutes give or take, the pair of them are bound to be stuck waiting _forever_. "I'm hoping to impress them too," Ruben says. "A score as good as the Careers would certainly tell sponsors to pay attention to me, don't you think?"

"I guess," she grumbles. _Kinda weird that the scores is the first time Ruben's ever seemed interested in._ The problem with her district partner is that he's the kind of guy you could have a lengthy conversation with and still know next to nothing about him. _Checkmate for him, I guess. Even if he impresses all the Capitolites in the world, no one will root for him if he can't give them a reason to do so._ "Might make the Careers not like you, though." On the train rides, she had been told to steer clear of them during the bloodbath and she'd be alright. Even though the comment had made her angry - and the fallout had made Ruben punch their escort - it has become the only piece of advice she's actually listened to. _If Ruben wants to make himself a target, so be it. One less person I'll have to deal with in the arena._

"I can handle myself just fine," Ruben assures her as he washes his bowl. _Mine'll be a nightmare to wash. Maybe I should just leave it for the Avoxes to deal with._ "But you should be looking for allies, Evie. Most everyone has one but us." It's not like she hasn't been trying to make alliances, but her outburst on the first day of training had pretty much cemented her position as a lone wolf. _I have to think of them all as enemies, even Ruben_, she tells herself.

"I can handle _myself_ just fine, too," she snaps at him.

"Sheesh. Good luck, then." Ruben shakes his head again and crosses the spacious living room to head for the door. _It's not even 10 A.M. yet. I hope he has fun waiting down there alone_, she thinks scathingly as she licks the last bit of honey off her spoon.

"I don't think I'm ready," she admits to an empty room, suddenly feeling very anxious about the whole ordeal. Everything seems to crash in at her all at once again, and all Evie can think about is the comforts of home. She wishes she had her cat here to talk to, but instead she's limited to Ruben with his logical indifference that seems to serve no purpose other than pissing her off.

_And if there's one thing I don't need to be today, it's pissed off._ As much as she hates to admit it, he is right that if her temper flares, she's likely to forfeit her chances at a good score.

All she needs to do is make sure she gets through the next couple days, and it'll be smooth sailing from there. Her hands fly up to her necklace, and she gently disentangles the silver-painted beads from around her neck, leaving them on the table. _I'm not going to die like Evelyn did, all those years ago._

_I'm coming home, and this is the first step to do it._

"Oh, come on, Evie," the boy sitting across from her says. "You're gonna do fine. Just don't get mad if they say anything off-putting to you."

"What are they gonna say to me that's _off-putting_?" she asks. _I'm tired of everyone treating me like an inadequate little kid._

* * *

**Alton Kersey **(**18**), **District 4 Tribute**

His head is still spinning from last night. The seven of them had been up until the early hours of morning when Cassiopeia, their escort, came back and kicked them out. And it was a shame too, since Alton had been building up the courage all night to finally follow Siren's advice.

_Nothing could have prepared me for how fast the relationships in these Games form._ Discounting the fact that four of his allies are fully trained killers - and that the other two know _how_ to fight - he's been having a great time getting to know this group. Sure, Asher rubs him the wrong way. _He has since the mashed potato incident_, he reflects grouchily, rubbing his eyes as he puts on his training uniform for the day. No matter how much he sweats during training, the uniform is always impossibly clean and dry by the next morning, folded neatly on the corner of the bare desk by the window. _Still freaks me out that the Avoxes just… come in here_.

He tightens the belt and hurries into the kitchen, grabbing two pancakes from the stack that his District partner is tucking into. "Come _on_," she laughs good-naturedly, whacking him lightly with the back of her hand as he fits one into his mouth.

"Mmph!" he mumbles indignantly, drizzling syrup directly into his mouth.

"ALTON!" Siren yells, and he ducks behind the counter, the second pancake forgotten. She's laughing now, the clear sound filling the empty room. "What are you doing? You can't be _that_ excited for the private sessions…" _No, but Moses might be. Maybe I can catch him before we have to wait with everyone else._

"I'm not," he manages to say around a mouthful of breakfast. _I'm gonna do it before the effects of last night wear off_. "I'm… just gonna see if anyone else feels as bad as I do. Last night was something else," he says sheepishly, waving goodbye before closing the apartment door. He remembers Cassiopeia's reaction to finding the seven of them partying. _Raunchy dancing and a couple of drinks, not enough for her to freak out over. _After Crescentia and Siren's waltz, the three other guys had decided they were well enough under the influence to put on their own dancing display, and Alton had chosen instead to observe with the girls, laughing when Asher took a nosedive off the counter, accompanied by a loud round of playful _boo_ing from Hela. In fact, he still feels cheated when the older woman forces Moses to get down from the counter and put his shirt back on. All he's been able to think about since is the boy's bulging muscles, rippling under his dark skin as he lifts his arms up and shrugs the shirt back on.

He's jittery the entire elevator ride down. _Just butterflies in your stomach_, his mother would have told him. _It's normal._ Alton takes a few deep breaths before the doors _ding_ open, trying to steady himself, and steps out into the training hall. It's already bustling with tributes, despite the day not starting until ten-o-clock. He scans the crowd for Moses, and is both delighted and terrified to see him. He's standing with his muscular back facing the elevators in one of the sparring rings with Hela and Asher. The three seem to be engaged in a good conversation, as Moses is laughing at something that Asher has said, the latter boy having a huge grin on his face.

He swallows, his throat suddenly going dry as he approaches them. "Hey guys," he calls out, making Moses turn at the sound of his voice. _There's the same look he was giving me last night_, Alton notes. _I can't be wrong, can I?_ The thought of having read the mixed bag of signals the other boy has been giving him gnaws away at his stomach. Worry. Fear. _What if I'm wrong and we can't look each other in the eyes after this?_ As he reaches them, Hela gives him a half-smile from where she reclines against the taut rope border of the sparring ring.

"Moses, any way I can talk to you real quick?" He asks, beginning to feel as though he's still on the elevator plummeting downward, as if the ground has been ripped out from under him. Hela and Asher look inquisitive, but do not say anything as Moses shrugs his broad shoulders and follows him to a more private location.

"Hey, so..." he breathes hard, one hand pressed against the wall so he can feel the smooth concrete beneath his fingertips. "Last night was fun, right?

"Right," Moses agrees, a look of boredom crossing his face. Alton pauses, his eyes searching the other boy's face. _Am I wrong? _All his life, Alton's been discouraged from exploring his emotions. _If I'm going to man up, I'm doing it my way._

He leans in, and cups the side of Moses' face gently, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks. Alton can feel the boy's breath against his face, shallow and controlled. In perhaps one of the boldest moves of his life, Alton takes a leap of faith and kisses him. He can feel the surprise radiate off of Moses, but he does not break from the kiss. Instead, he parts his lips and commits to it, gripping Alton's arm as if to imprison him in the moment. Alton's eyes are shut, yet every other sense feels heightened; the touch of Moses' soft lips and the sweet taste of his mouth make Alton want to forget about everything. Any time they break apart for even a millisecond, he craves the reunion between them, and is rewarded by the entrance of Moses' tongue into his mouth. It's a quick and electric shock, and one which has him leaning in hungrily to the kiss, as no one has ever done this before.

What was at first unsure and questioning, grows deeper and more sensuous as Alton's confidence grows; a warmth surging in his chest and the roaring of desire in his gut are almost enough to bring him to his knees. He can't think clearly until Moses gently places a hand on his chest and pushes him back. He opens his eyes and gazes into the other boy's face, searching once more, but this time for affirmation rather than validation. He's breathing hard - and so is Moses - but it's synchronized, as if he's stolen the breath out of the boy and replaced it with his own.

"You remember when you asked me to pick a weapon? To pick my poison?" Alton asks him. A nod is the only response he gets, and he takes a deep breath, preparing himself.

"What if I told you the poison I want to pick… was you?"

* * *

**Edward Nelson** (**12**), **District 3 Tribute**

Everything seems to be annoying Brita today. "Edward, will you _stop_ that?" she hisses, causing him to momentarily stop bouncing his knee up and down. A few of the other tributes already seated in the waiting room look at them strangely, but he could care less. _It's her fault._ To be honest, there is some satisfaction to be found when she came back to the apartment last night with a dejected look. _She deserves it for trying to bother other people for an alliance. She won't even ally with me, so why would other people want her?_

She had come home grumbling about 'Sorrel,' who he could only assume was the person she had gone to visit. Edward vaguely remembers him from the Reapings recap, a boy probably two or three years older than himself, but much taller. Apart from that, he can't really remember much about him, least of all anything Brita would want to ally with him for.

She rolls her eyes again, which is quickly becoming the only thing she does anymore. _It's not my fault I'm excited. Plus she doesn't have to sit next to me, she just chooses to._ In truth, the reason Edward is excited is because today is the day that he gets the undivided attention of Vivianne Vetura and the rest of the Gamemakers. He's a bit nervous to try and impress them, but overall his sense of excitement and pride in getting to meet her face-to-face surmounts any doubt he carries with him. _How lucky am I? _Surely even the Capitolites are dying to meet her, or even see her in person beyond her appearances being interviewed on stage. _I'm meeting a celebrity, for crying out loud!_

It's not like their mentors aren't celebrities either, but the difference between _survivor_ and _actual celebrity_ is a very vast one. _If I didn't live in Three, I could be a celebrity._ Hell, he's watched enough of the Games and even every interview Vivianne has had since her tenure at the beginning of her career as Head Gamemaker. _I know enough to be one of them._ The thought of _being_ a Gamemaker, too, is one that thrills him. _Maybe if I win, I can design muttations for the Capitol or something_. His parents are part of the select few District-based volunteers who have jobs as 'arena technicians,' but nothing they do is ever of the same caliber as the Gamemakers themselves. Being a Victor would surely mean he could funnel some earnings into a position on their team. _And how amazing would that be? _

After all, getting to see his television idols is the single greatest achievement of his life.

Brita sighs exasperatedly beside him, but makes no move to get up as others file into the dimly lit waiting room. District One's two golden-haired tributes sit closest to the door for the sake of not having to walk as far to the door, but Edward will be proud enough to walk past them all when his name is called, for he knows exactly what lies behind the door: opportunity.

Sure, it may be sad that other people have to die in order for a Victor to be made, but their deaths aren't worthless. And neither will be the deaths of everyone around him. After all, they're just an opportunity too, to elevate himself in life. Being the youngest Victor ever at age twelve would certainly raise him up in the eyes of Panem. And if he's reasonable about it, and stays as far away from the Careers as possible, there's no reason to doubt what the future holds for him.

Suddenly a monotone beep fills the room and the tributes - which only fill up about half of the seats - all look up to the door, where large red digital numbers display a name, and a countdown underneath. Fifteen minutes to impress them. Crescentia Monroe, it says, and the girl in question stands up, taking a deep breath, as the door opens for her.

"Good luck," says Castiel grinning from beside her. _How can all the Careers look so normal and be so dangerous? _Especially since Castiel is supposedly being mentored by Aurelia Dior, the Victor of the first Quarter Quell. _Color me jealous_, Edward thinks, a scowl resting on his face. He impatiently brushes his short wavy brown hair to the side as he watches the numbers tick down, the anticipation growing more fierce in his stomach.

He stops bouncing his leg, much to Brita's relief, and manually moves the hands in his watch. The token's batteries had been removed during inspection, but by moving the hands he can almost lie to himself that he won't have to wait another hour and ten minutes before getting to cross the threshold into the demonstration room.

Edward takes a deep breath, and looks back up at the numbers to see that, much to his dismay, they haven't changed at all.

Brita gets up and changes her seat when he starts bouncing his knee again.

* * *

**Moses Finch** (**18**), **District 2 Tribute**

He can still taste the sweetness from his exploration of Alton's mouth over half an hour later, while the numbers beneath Castiel's name tick down toward zero. He sits next to Hela, who is trying to control her breathing to be as quiet as possible in a room holding twenty-two people, some of which are heavy breathers. He supposes it's a way of relaxing herself, but he feels amped up and ready to show off his skillset to the Gamemakers. A slow sort of confidence has been building within him as time spent in the Capitol stretches on. When Alton leaned in toward him, his lips electric and sweet like syrup, Moses didn't need to think or worry about the implications. It felt _right_. It felt earned, as if the culmination of a growing stoicism was a pleasurable reward from the tall boy.

He briefly wonders too, how Aaron and Eve feel about him now from the familiarity of District 2. _If Aaron has told her what I did in the Justice Building…_ it was liberating, but rash. _With Alton, I want to think it can be different._ But how can it be any less rash or rushed with the time span they have? Moses puts his head in his hands, and rests them there for a moment before a third beep raises him. Hela stands abruptly beside him, and he gives her a warm smile that she does not reciprocate. Fifteen minutes pass before the fourth beep sounds, and he stares at the door, seeing his name in red. _Moses FInch, 15:00_.

He stands with a sigh and stretches his arms in front of him, turning them so that the muscles gleam in the dim lighting. The door slides open and he steps inside, the bright fluorescent lights a harsh change from the dim ambiance of the waiting room. He suddenly feels chilly as he looks up to the raised platform where the Gamemakers are seated; it's not unlike the one in the main training gym, but smaller as the number of attendees has been reduced. He does not care which one is the famed Head Gamemaker. _I'm the fourth person in, and a Career. They _have _to take me seriously_. The same numbers on the outside of the room are displayed above the platform, reminding him that he has fourteen minutes and twenty-six seconds to earn high marks. He strides over to the weapons rack and hefts a large sword from it, testing the weight.

"Ca- _May_ I have a sparring partner?" he asks, correcting himself. Someone affirms it and he stands on the sparring mat, sword held so that the tip is grazing the ground. The trainer charges him without warning, and he has just enough time to wrap both hands around the hilt before a sword is being swung at him. He lifts his to parry it, but the familiar sound of steel clashing against steel is absent, since the sword his opponent is using is fake. Moses sidesteps and swings his sword at the man, and the two grow locked in a fierce struggle between blades.

It ends after a few grueling minutes where all Moses is able to focus on is blocking the other man's blows and trying to inflict his own. The trainer steps back and points his sword toward the ground as the synthetic training armor reveals a long red mark on the man's ribcage where Moses finally connected with the armor. "Good fight," he says respectfully, going back to hang his sword up. With time still left on the clock, Moses takes off his shirt as deliberately as possible, making sure they all get a good look at his physique. _Now it's even colder_, he thinks, slightly embarrassed but determined to push onward. He jogs across the room to the lone punching bag, hanging by a sleek chain, and is reminded of the morning he spent before his whirlwind selection for the Games.

He can feel their eyes on the back of his head, and forgets about his audience as he makes war to the bag, landing a barrage of punches on its smooth red surface. Small dents in its firm composition are made as his knuckles connect, and he makes sure to give them a show of circling the bag. Ducking and dodging as if it were a real opponent, he begins to work up a slight sweat from the exertion and speed of the exercise, before taking off in a full sprint across the room to where the weapons are located. _Look, I can run too,_ he jests in his head as he selects a massive axe off the rack. He tries to control his breathing as he does so, much like Hela earlier, and for a fleeting second wonders what she did before he came in.

Then he charges across the room at the same speed, despite gripping a heavy axe in his hands, and swings it full-force at the punching bag. A gasp sounds from the Gamemakers, as they have stopped their low side-conversation to stare at the results of his attack. The bag is torn in half by a single savage blow, its contents on display though it still barely hangs to the top by a couple of threads.

"Mr. FInch, you are dismissed," says an angular woman from the group of Gamemakers, scribbling on her clipboard. As he heads for the side door, the bag finishes its journey to the ground, and he grins from ear to ear. _I must have impressed them_.

* * *

**Sorrel Nettleson** (**15**), **District 5 Tribute**

He's glad when Brita has disappeared from the waiting room, but the look Nyx gives him wipes the smile off his face. Sure, it was awkward that she kept looking over at the pair of them - especially given how last night went - but Nyx doesn't need to _glare_ at him. _She wanted Brita in the alliance,_ he recounts, staring straight ahead at the blank wall in front of him with his elbows resting on his knees. _I can't let someone else in now that I finally have her attention_.

He casts a sidelong look at the girl of his dreams, where she sits on the chair with one knee drawn to her chest, the other planted on the floor. The time is ticking on Alton Kersey's private session, and he can sense the nervousness in her posture. "You're gonna do great, Nyxandrea," he tells her. For once, she does not insist on correcting his usage of her full name, instead too focused on the remaining forty seconds on the session before hers. _Good, because her name is beautiful… I don't know why she insists on shortening it._ "I'm serious! Just show them what you've learned." She nods slowly as Alton's name is replaced with hers, and he gives her hand a gentle squeeze. "Good luck," he whispers as she stands and severs the contact, disappearing behind the door.

The next fifteen minutes are slow, and when her name disappears, Sorrel gets up from his chair and walks to the door as promptly as possible, arriving before it even opens. When it does, he makes sure to get inside quickly, but still in a dignified manner. He's taken aback by how small the demonstration room seems in comparison to the main gymnasium. _I guess they have to be able to see us wherever we go_, he thinks, surveying his options. He's pleased to see nearly every station represented in the room, even if it is scaled down a notch. He stops looking around and centers his attention on the Gamemakers, where they sit perched above the floor. There are five of them in total, and all are drinking wine. _And they're all watching me… it's kinda creepy_, he decides. He isn't nervous, as there isn't much which seems to faze him anymore, but he feels the need to be as formal as possible.

"Good morning, ma'am," he addresses the woman with the clipboard, who is probably in her late thirties. "I was just wondering if I might ask you a question before I demonstrate anything for you today." His heart is pounding in his chest, but from excitement rather than the nervousness Nyx had seemed to display.

The woman stands and adjusts her glasses. "Yes, Mr. Nettleson?"

"I was just wondering, with all due respect ma'am, what would be required of me to achieve a five as my score?" Sorrel asks, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. _Hopefully whatever she says I'm capable of._ He waits with bated breath for her to dignify him with a response.

"Well, Mr. Nettleson, what do you think merits a five?" He opens his mouth to respond, but she holds up a hand. "Why don't you show us instead?"

He sighs inwardly and walks over to the plant identification quiz, looking up to see how much time he has to impress her. _I can't be overlooked by sponsors_. The Games have never particularly held his interest, but he knows that gaining the favor of the Capitolites is a sure way to make it easier. _After the parade, I need to keep them invested in us somehow_. He turns on the quiz,and speeds through it mindlessly, the countless hours he and Nyx spent at the station returning to him. _It's much easier to remember how she reacted to getting them right or wrong than it is to remember the actual plants_. He grimaces as he gets one, then two wrong, but finishes with a high enough score by the end of the exercise.

The problem is that Nyx probably did that station too, and if he wants to distinguish himself from her, he's going to need to do something she wouldn't do. His eyes land on the weapons rack, and he selects a gladius from it. The blade is slightly dulled, and about the length of his forearm, but should be easy enough to use. Sorrel locates the dummies and attacks one, using the sword to hack into the soft silicon side. He takes a step back and plunges the length of the sword through the dummy's chest, right between the pectorals, and pulls it out, fake red blood spraying onto his hands. He then puts all of his force behind the sword and takes the head clean off with two strokes. _Not bad for not being very trained in weapons, if I do say so myself_. By this point, the time is running to a close, so he carefully wipes the sword off with his shirt and puts it back on the rack.

"I hope that was enough to impress you, ma'am," he tells the woman with the clipboard, bowing slightly before making his exit.

The synthetic blood has quickly dried on his hands, and he wonders for a moment what it would feel like to kill another tribute and feel the weight of real blood on his hands. _Would that impress her more, if I were to kill someone?_

_Maybe_. But he can't help but wonder what becoming a murderer would imply for his growing relationship with Nyx. _Would she hate me if I killed for her?_

* * *

**Sebastiana Ridgewood** (**12**), **District 7 Tribute**

The Head Gamemaker is _hot_. Not smoking hot like some of the people back home, but for a Capitolite, Miss Vetura is clearly a good-looking woman. She exudes confidence, and her high cheekbones and one cocked eyebrow make her look very authoritarian. _Something that I generally wouldn't like to see, but it suits her_, Bash decides as she enters the room. WIth only fifteen minutes to leave her mark, and being the first member of her alliance to go, Bash is itching to succeed. _And itching to not have to wait in the waiting room anymore!_ So far, _that_ has been the most boring part of the entire Capitol experience. Apart from that, she has thoroughly enjoyed her time here, especially after the chariot rides when she and Winston had decided to make friends with the others.

"Miss Ridgewood, you are welcome to begin," the Head Gamemaker tells her, a smile on her face.

Bash blushes. "Sorry!" she yells, jogging over to the ropes course. She and Arley had climbed it several times during training, trying to catch each other. Her ally wasn't particularly good at it, but Bash had been able to complete the course several times. _No reason it should be different now_. She grips the ropes course with a firm hand and puts a foot on the first rung, quickly glancing at the Gamemakers to make sure they are paying attention. Being from one of the later districts, most of them begin to lose interest. _I can't imagine having to be from Twelve, sitting through all of the private sessions. And all the interviews too_. But Miss Vetura is paying attention, and that brings Bash a small amount of comfort as she begins to climb. Despite the area of the room, the ropes course spans a great deal of the ceiling. _Steady_, she tells herself as she climbs into the air, the rope ladder seeming to wobble beneath her.

_Of course, it'd be much easier to climb a tree_. But seeing as there is never anything that isn't manufactured in the Capitol, trees must be _so_ hard to come by. _Unless they steal them from us_. She tries to get all the whimsical thoughts of storks and a tree-stealing machine out of her head by the time she reaches the top of the rope ladder. She stands on a narrow platform a good ten feet in the air, and there's only the entire _freaking_ course left. She takes a deep breath and starts, trying to be as agile as possible when jumping from board to board, or crossing a rope without proper handrails. Many times, Bash is convinced she is going to fall, and stops once she reaches the second platform to brush her messy hair out of her eyes. From here, it looks like the course was an easy maybe two minute ordeal, but seeing that it took her _four_ to reach the second platform, she decides to pick up the pace.

_I wonder how I'm going to compare to the other twelve-year-olds_. After all, there are four of them this year, and though she's sure she and Arley will be on the same par, she hasn't really gotten a chance to see Edward. _And Halley did the Gauntlet_, she reminds herself. _I still don't regret choosing Padds and Arley over her and Darnius, but I don't want to get a lower score than her._ That's the hard part too, she supposes. That you don't quite know what others are capable of, even after seeing them during training. _Because people hide their intentions_.

Perhaps that's why she feels so out-of-place here in the Capitol. Her escort, stylists, and even the trainers always seem to be unable to hold a transparent conversation with her, and that stings a little. Bash reaches the third platform, and in record time of two minutes. The last platform is separated by a large swath of rope netting which she can run or crawl over. _This is where Arley always falls_, she thinks to herself. Her back is facing the Gamemakers now, so she feels more relaxed about it. With the time ticking down, though, she doesn't have enough to spare, so when her foot gets caught in the netting, a yell escapes from her lips.

"AHHH!" She finds herself dangling upside down, with the ropes twisted over her foot so that it is cocooned in them. She can feel the blood rushing to her head, and opens her eyes to look at the clock and Miss Vetura, who has stopped paying attention to jot down notes on her clipboard. Disappointment - or maybe vomit - seems to build up in her, and she closes her eyes again as a trainer jogs over to help free her. _Three out of four should be enough, right?_

Bash is helped to the ground, and without being excused, scampers out the door and away from the situation, leaving the disappointment of the Gamemakers behind her.

* * *

**Mariela Polaris** (**15**), **District 12 Tribute**

It took about five hours before Tangaria's name appeared on the screen above the door, and once she left to go show the Gamemakers her demonstration, Mariela and Reynolds are left alone in the room with Asher, her district partner. He hasn't so much as glanced their way at all, and for that she's glad. The boy worries her: he _had _to have some skills if the Careers accepted him, especially being from District 11. Finally, he is called out and she and Reynolds are left entirely alone in the waiting room. "What do you think you'll show them?" she asks inquisitively.

"I'm not sure yet," he admits. "I might try some knives, maybe one of the survival tests." He gives her a very soft smile. It's fleeting, but _there_ and suddenly Mari feels better about their current situation. _He ate more for breakfast today, too_. If living with her sister June had taught her anything, it becomes easy to shut the world away when pain makes an appearance in life. She remembers nights spent huddled together beside the candle on the windowsill, watching the flame struggle against the slight breeze. Nights where she would comfort her sister, and vice versa. She remembers June's arms holding her tight, as if nothing in this world could make her let go. Her throaty and broken scream as the Peacekeepers took her away.

_I can't linger on that. I have to think about the present, so I can return to the past._ "I'll probably show them as much as possible. I've split wood before, and I tried the axes when you and Tangaria were working on shelters."

Reynolds nods. "Just promise me something, Mari." She sits upright in her seat, focused on his words. "You can't get that frustrated in the arena when we have to make shelter, okay?" He winks at her and she chuckles a little, the sound filling the empty room.

"I promise," she tells him as Asher's clock winds down to zero and her name takes his place. A moment later the door opens, and she is almost afraid to leave him alone. _But everything will be okay, just like June always said. Just like I always told her_.

She takes a deep breath and faces the Gamemakers, nodding to the woman with the clipboard. She fiddles with the ends of her hair for a moment, and old nervous habit, before deciding exactly what she wants to show them. Then Mari walks over to the weapons rack and grabs an axe, the heavy steel clanging against the rack as she takes it off. A few dummies stand a couple yards away from her, and with a war cry she's sure will startle them, she charges the dummies, lifting the axe above her head. It comes hurtling down at the first dummy, splitting the blue silicon head and spewing fake blood everywhere. She quickly dances around it and buries the axe in the stomach of the same dummy, hoping that the display of using a large weapon has impressed them. She steps through the fake blood this time, resting the axe against the dummy before walking calmly back to the rack to take a few small tomahawks off the wall near the throwing knives.

Mariela turns around just in time to see a Gamemaker's eyebrows rise and fall in surprise. _Maybe it's not a popular weapon_, she thinks, preparing a stance a good distance from the second dummy. The first tomahawk misses, and she curses loudly under her breath. She looks up at the Gamemakers, and upon seeing that she has lost all of their attention, feels disappointed. _Maybe being the last district to go guarantees they won't pay attention to us._ She clenches her fist harder around the handle of the tomahawk. _I bet they give One and Two plenty of attention_, she groans. She squares up once more, facing the stationary target, and embeds the tomahawk in its collarbone. _Would that even be enough to kill someone?_ She wonders, the bright scarlet liquid dripping down its neck. She trudges over to the dummy and yanks the tomahawk out of its neck, feeling satisfied as the red spews out of the superficial wound. _Maybe._ But Mari isn't quite sure she has the killer instinct in her. _Not yet, anyway_.

"Are you finished, Miss Polaris?" a voice asks her, and she looks up to the expectant expression of the Head Gamemaker. Three minutes remain on the clock. "Uh, yes ma'am," she tells her.

"Alright then, the door is over that way. Make sure to replace the axe on your way out," the older woman instructs, and Mariela can feel her ears burning as she hurries to do so.

_At least that is over_. She sighs in relief, walking out the doors. The thought of her fate now being in the hands of someone else - even just temporarily - scares her, and she's glad they can't see her face as she leaves them behind.

It may be over, but the Games loom ahead. _And so might death_.

* * *

**Author's Note****: Here is the private sessions! I know a lot of you probably skipped to the end here, and some might be disappointed to see that the scores are **_**not**_ **here. They will, however, be in the next chapter. And yeah… if this chapter seemed a little shorter that's because with the second round of tribute POVs, I'm shooting for 750-1000 words rather than 1000+ because I'm absolutely **_**itching**_ **to get into the arena. My apologies! Not my best work, but its work and it didn't take two weeks to get out...**

**I do have the next chapter complete, but I think I'll wait to post it so I can get ahead on the interviews portion of the pre-games. Four chapters left before the bloodbath! Aaand speaking of the bloodbath, anyone who hasn't read my sponsoring information should probably do that. Sponsoring is officially OPEN. The link is working, and you have up until the bloodbath is posted to purchase your tribute's Cornucopia supplies. Readers may sponsor as well! There are ways you can get points :). If there is any confusion about the process please feel free to shoot me a quick PM.**

**Have a nice day/night :))**


	16. Chapter 16: the Stage Beckons

**The scores are listed below, as I felt it better to reveal them now, then let Vivianne talk about them.**

_**D1: Crescentia Monroe: 1 / Castiel Bomber: 10**_

_**D2: Hela Mistlyre: 10 / Moses Finch: 9**_

_**D3: Brita Edison: 4 / Edward Nelson: 2**_

_**D4: Siren Thalassa: 6 / Alton Kersey: 8**_

_**D5: Nyxandrea Nexus: 5 / Sorrel Nettleson: 5**_

_**D6: Mercedes Benson: 7 / Axel Richthofen: 7**_

_**D7: Sebastiana Ridgewood: 3 / Winston Thorn: 7**_

_**D8: Halley Verron: 6 / Darnius Paisley: 5**_

_**D9: Arley Harva: 2 / Filip Padderson: 6**_

_**D10: Evanna Lynn: 3 / Ruben Bolt: 8**_

_**D11: Tangaria Roolch: 4 / Asher Foster: 7**_

_**D12: Mariela Polaris: 5 / Reynolds Pelliarch: 4**_

* * *

_Politicians hide themselves away_

_They only started the war_

_Why should they go out to fight?_

_They leave that role to the poor_

-Black Sabbath, War Pigs

* * *

**CHAPTER 16**

**THE STAGE BECKONS**

* * *

**Vivianne Vetura** (**41**), **Head Gamemaker**

Her fingers close around the thick manila folder, the hasty scrawlings of her handwriting tucked neatly inside, and spreads it out on the desk.

"What an interesting bunch we're going to have this year," says Quinn with an amused smile on his face, literal moments after inviting himself into her apartment. _Granted, I didn't lock the door, but a knock to know he was coming would've been nice_. "I wonder which ones will give me a hard time on the stage?" He chuckles and rummages in her small alcohol cabinet to find a bottle of fruit-flavored vodka. _Raspberry is his favorite_. Vivianne sighs and runs her fingers through her long, gray-streaked hair.

It's going to be a long night for Panem's Head Gamemaker.

"The very first tribute admitted inside to show off her skills was District 1's Crescentia Monroe," says Vivianne, looking up at Quinn while her finger taps gently on the unyielding white paper. His face grows a strange grin, like he's caught halfway between a laugh or a look of confusion as he stares at her results.

"Crescentia Monroe, with a score of _one_. How is that possible?" He asks, furrowing his eyebrows.

"I'm not quite sure myself," says Vivianne tiredly. _She certainly kickstarted one hell of an interesting afternoon. _"She wasn't the selected volunteer, and I'm not too sure if she was either trying to keep us in the dark, or if she's too scared to try. She just _stood_ there! The audience needs to understand her motives, so make sure you address this in the interviews for sure," the Head Gamemaker tells him.

She flicks through the portfolio. "The next two are fairly standard affairs. I've given Castiel and Hela both tens. Castiel's physique and proficiency with a sword earned him the number, and with Hela's proficiency in multiple weapons, her physique, and her demeanor, I would have scored her higher given her background, save that either of them would make a fine leader to keep the Pack in shape. I don't want an eleven muddying up her strategy with too much pride." She takes a sip of the black coffee sitting on the surface of the table, and inhales the wispy steam as it floats into the air.

Quinn nods in silent agreement with her decision, but she can tell he might make it a point to ask them how they feel about contesting for leadership. "Moses is a bit lower on my scale, ranking with a nine. His physique and his background of training do not bother me, but I query if he has what it takes to be a killer."

Quinn shrugs. "It doesn't help that he's the smallest Career, apart from Siren. And she doesn't technically count as a Career, either - " she cuts him off by moving onward. "Brita and Edward were both fairly standard affairs. I gave Brita a four for her skillset, and I think giving Edward a two might be a bit of a stretch. He seems to be a little obsessive with the Games, and I'm not sure how well that will serve him. Make sure you don't bring up family around Brita… her parents were abducted about five years ago for tampering with the designs of the arena. They used to work for us, you know. She doesn't need to get all riled up and tell the audience about our keeping of the peace."

"Alton's performance was impressive, but like Moses he seemed to be emotionally charged. It'll make for good TV if he's rooted for, but will that help him win? I don't know. I gave him an eight because though he showed skills in several weapons, there's never a guarantee something like a morningstar or a trident will be in the Cornucopia. You remember that year early on when there was nothing but hatchets? Either way, I'll make sure one of his weapons gets put in there. Siren was surprisingly good with spearwork. I'm not sure if she has had any formal training, but I think a six was earned by the way she can throw it. She might work to prove her spot in the alliance, like Talisa did last year."

"Moving onto Five, both Nyxandrea and Sorrel were both incredibly average. Nothing wrong with that, of course. But both Fives earned fives. Nyxandrea demonstrated skills that she picked up during training as well as great endurance, stamina, and spatial perception on the agility course. Sorrel was cheeky enough to ask for a five, so he was given one. I'd expect bold moves from this one," she says, tapping the black-and-white photo of the boy. She flips the page to one with the seal of District 6 on the top.

"Six surprised me a little. Just based off of the Recap, both tributes seemed a little hotheaded and off-putting to me. Mercedes was probably one of the biggest surprises, with being able to throw knives with an accuracy of nine out of thirteen hitting their mark. Coupled with sheer determination, we felt it right to score her at a seven. She could prove to be deadly. Axel's demeanor screams danger. He might not sound too dangerous, but a seven given his background and the combat skills he demonstrated is more than appropriate. I would have originally given the Sixes, well, sixes, but I think if the Careers view them as threats we could get a very _interesting_ show."

The Master of Ceremonies nods, and a pleased expression flits across her face. _After all, someone has to entertain the Capitol clowns. Might as well make a grand show of it_, she grins. Her last few years have produced satisfying Victors for the Capitol to fawn over, and getting the training scores done right is a large part of drumming up the anticipation.

"Seven was a fairly normal group. The boy, Winston, had proficiency with an ax, as to be expected from a lumbering background, and he had some of the survival skills we usually see in older tributes from his District. I think a seven was appropriate. Sebastiana, on the other hand…" Vivianne purses her lips and blows a strand of hair from her face. "Trainers report no lack of energy or enthusiasm. Coupled with her age, lack of experience, and the stunt she pulled with her escort made me give her a three. If she can find the right allies, she may stand a chance. But her chances of _winning _are next to impossible."

"I wish I could say Eight stands a great chance of victory, but Halley being twelve caps her at the score of six. She has a lot of survival skills, drive, and she picked up some talent with a blade in the Training Center. Hell, I saw her _finish_ the Gauntlet, but I think in most dangerous situations she might be trapped. Darnius was given a five for displaying some very average skills, strength, and hand-to-hand combat. He may be a 'dark horse' so to speak, but I wouldn't bet on him."

"Arley struggled to lift a weight, and did virtually nothing else. I don't see a lot of potential in her, and she's very thin. I think given the circumstances and her age, a two is necessary. Filip, on the other hand, grew proficient with a weapon and developed significant survival skills. A six was awarded to him as well."

Quinn looks out at the cityscape with a half-smile on his face, and downs another shot of vodka. "Slow down with that, will you?" She complains. _He needs to be coherent, or the President will get on his ass_.

"Calm down, _darling_ Vivianne. You know I'll manage myself just fine." He shakes his head and wags a finger at her. "Don't mother the kids that aren't yours."

She sighs and gets moving with the folder. "Ten disturbed me. Officials say they beat their escort, Caius, on the train. Some digging explained that the girl has Dissociative Identity Disorder, which when combined with a lack of skills, warranted her a three. The boy, however… if anyone was to give the Careers competition I do think it could be him. He seems ruthless, and his weapon skills and a surprising adeptness at rigging traps earned him a solid eight."

"Tangaria's limp hurts her a little," Vivianne evaluates as she flips toward the end of her folder. "But a strong base of survival skills and slingshot accuracy merited a four. Similar to Darnius, she could be a dark horse under the right conditions. Asher… he's a wild card. The Peacekeepers report a lot of disruptive behavior and gang affiliation. I'd keep an eye on him once you get him on stage. He's very quick, and with his weapon history and the cheeky stunt he pulled with the bladed gloves, he might surprise us. I gave him a seven."

Her friend's eyes shoot up at this. "He seems to be getting friendly with the Career Pack as well, but the trainers do say that some of them look a little disgruntled by his inclusion. Then again, with the girls from One and Four already make this a fairly unconventional year. What's the worst that could happen?" He smooths down his candy pink lapels after they creased upon standing to retrieve a glass of water between shots.

"Finally, with Twelve I saw mixed results. Mariela won a score of five for her overall axework. She had decent accuracy with a tomahawk too, and I think she might be something to watch. Reynolds did show a strong lack of skills, and though he was definitely trying, I don't quite think a five was earned, so we ranked him with a four. You also need to keep family out of the picture for him. His family was killed years ago for speaking up against the Capitol. We don't want any traces of rebel propaganda coming up on live television." She closes the manila folder with a satisfied grin, glad to be done with her long-winded evaluation.

The man across from her nods in approval. "Sounds like quite the exhilarating bunch to watch. It'll be fun interviewing them, I think," he says. "Some of them may be different on the stage rather than in a room being tested. It's another… arena in itself." He shrugs, and she stands, pushing the chair back into the low-seated table. The glass makes a heavy clinking sound in her sink. _I'll wash it when I'm finished with this fucking interview_, she thinks with an eye roll she's thankful her partner didn't see.

The stage has always bothered Vivianne. The fame is glorious of course - why else would she fight to keep her position? - but the lights and the crowd always makes her sweat in the wrong places. It's one thing to issue a statement to the already critical Capitolites, but another to do it when the lights can't hide the sweat on her forehead. The crowd always pleases her, though, being enraptured when she speaks to them. _They adore me_, she grins. It gives her life that they can be so appreciative of her work. After all, it is the primary event each year in the Capitol - nothing else _really_ happens - and _she_ is responsible for the cheers and the dancing delights in their eyes.

She'd never admit it, but it's the fame that makes her feel so lionized. _I can't get enough of it, no matter how much I sweat in front of them. _Tarquinius Valentine straightens his tie and downs another shot glass of his raspberry-flavored liquid courage. "We best make our way down to the City Circle," he murmurs, drawing their gaze to the brightly-lit world beyond the balcony of her apartment.

He's always been better at his gig after he's had a little alcohol in his stomach. Then the crowd seems less demanding, the lights less harsh. _Maybe it's why he's kept his job for the last fourteen years, _she muses over her second cup of black coffee. _This is what I'll need to get through it_, she thinks, grinning into the brim of the cup so that he can't see her smile. She's had her job since the first Quarter Quell, when the last Head Gamemaker had resigned after putting on quite the show, culminating in the victory of the famous Aurelia Dior. _Four years and running, and I'm already more famous than Quinn could ever be_. She snorts and sets the coffee cup on the counter next to the sink.

"What do you say, Madam?" he asks her with an overly dramatic courtesy in his voice. "Shall we go face the masses?" The dusky kitchen light seems so small in comparison to what's waiting just a quick walk down the street. Vivianne gathers her hair in a well-practiced motion, tying it up into the austere bun that she know gives her a sterner appearance. The gray streaks in her hair are a mixture of stress and accentuated by stylistic choice, but the combination makes her look like someone to fear. _Not like I kill kids for a living or anything_. She grins at herself in the mirror, admiring herself as she knows that the crowds will be, thinking her to be much older and wiser than she really is.

She takes the hand he offered, his breath smelling of red raspberries. _Like his hair_. _He certainly lives up to that ridiculous last name_, she surmises as he leads her out of her own apartment. She locks the door quickly behind her and pockets the key, and Calvus and his friend fall into step behind her. She can tell it's him under the mask by the way he moves with stoicism and pride as he walks behind her. It's never bothered her that she is twelve years his senior, with he and his twin sister being on the cusp of turning thirty. _The only thing that bothers me is having him so close, but not being able to have him hold me_. Their relationship has been a secret these past two years, as Calvus is _technically_ not supposed to have any sort of obligation other than to the Capitol. She sighs, wishing that the end of his enlistment would hurry along so she can spend time with him freely. _Something to look forward to_.

It's a shame, too, that Vivianne never knows what the stage will offer her, with its blurry temptations of fame and power and _success_. However, it's much easier to face with her lover at her back and her friend by her side. They exit the building to the stuffy nighttime air, the faint noise of premature cheering and screaming riding the stiff wind like whispers to curl inside her ears. The City Circle is likely already filled to the brim with anyone rich and fast enough to secure tickets. The glamour and dazzling lights wait ahead of her, and she smirks as she imagines thousands of eager faces leaning forward to listen to her words.

_Panem isn't ready for this..._

_And neither are my tributes_.

* * *

**Tarquinius Valentine** (**38**), **Master of Ceremonies**

It went about as well as expected, with the vast majority of Capitol residents turning up to listen to he and Vivianne reveal the scores and dive into some light talk about the preparations Vivianne has been working on for the arena. Nothing enough to ruin the surprise, but enough to keep them satisfied and on their toes. Of course, none of the tributes would hear this part: at this point each of them would have been whisked away from the screens and into the care of their stylists. Tonight is the big night, after all. He pushes past the second curtain from behind the stage, the heavy mohair curtain like a hand drapedon his shoulder. He shrugs it off and walks into the backstage area with a certain nonchalance expected of him going on his fifteenth year as the Master of Ceremonies. He nods at one of the hairstylists who is taking a smoke break and unlocks the door to his dressing room.

The interior of his room is quiet. He can still hear the faint murmur of the crowd from beyond the walls, and he runs his fingers through his gelled red hair as he goes to sit in his chair. The vanity lights are a bit bright on his eyes, so he dims them down a little, the lightbulb filaments burning into a low orange glow. He sighs, trying to tune out the invasive noise of the crowd.

He fills another glass of his favorite liquor, now that Vivianne isn't here to tell him to watch how much he drinks. Three hundred and twenty-two, he thinks. The number plagues him on a daily basis. Three hundred and twenty two, and soon it'll be three hundred and forty-five. The number of children he has spoken to on his stage. The children he has wished luck, only to see them die, again and again and again. Vivianne's face had lit up when he asked her how excited everyone should be for the violence this year, especially considering the skewed amount of high scorers in outlier Districts. "Very excited. I never fail to entertain," she had told them. Maybe that's why I never could have applied to work as a Gamemaker.

Seeing them die in enough. Enough to make him start drinking, so that maybe he won't remember the ones he talked to. Enough to make me feel comfortable sending them off.

"Tarquinius," a voice says from the corner of his dressing room. He looks up into the mirror, the faint light revealing the outline of a man he should have seen before. His blood chills as the man's glittery golden hair catches the light from the vanity. The President sits with his hands folded in his lap, a stern gaze fixed on the back of Quinn's head.

"President Ammon," he nods, swallowing a sudden spike of fear. He takes a white makeup powder and dusts some onto his face where the sheen of sweat has broken through.

The man stands and walks toward him, but Quinn doesn't dare move his eyes from the mirror reflection. A shark-like grin twists on his face, like he's hunting prey in treacherous waters, and Quinn shudders slightly as a hand is placed on his shoulder. What does he want from me? Shouldn't he be above coming to visit me on his own…? A hundred thoughts run through his brain, and he eyes the cup sitting in front of him, still half-filled with raspberry liquor. I wonder if he can smell it on me, he thinks nervously. "The tributes are all being dressed, correct?"

Not the question he was expecting, and the normal tone in the President's voice feels reassuring. "Yes, sir." He straightens the lapels on his signature pink blazer, reaching for the glass with a perceptibly shaking hand.

The President's other hand clamps down on his wrist, and one of Quinn's fingers catches on the glass and sends it crashing down to the floor. His head feels as though it is swaying now, out of fear or intoxication he cannot tell. "I think you've had enough, Mr. Valentine." The use of his last name only serves to put him more on edge, any pretense of friendliness lost as he stares into the man's dark irises. "Too much, in fact. I expect my Master of Ceremonies to be far more competent than that," the President whispers.

The shadows seem to catch in the wrinkles of the other man's face, creating a ghastly looking creature to stare into his soul from the mirror. The lights are just an inch away from Quinn's reach, but he doesn't dare move until the President releases his wrist. "Do you understand why I'm here?" he asks. "Because after fourteen years in this position, you'd think that Tarquinius Valentine would be much more competent. But you aren't," the President sneers, his face contorted in the mirror. Quinn's heart is hammering now, unsure of what he is supposed to say or do to please the older man. "You drink too much, Mr. Valentine," he says. "Vivianne should have not had to ask you to repeat your questions."

"I-I'm sorry, sir. I can d-drink less next time... I'll be coherent for the tributes. I promise."

"You had better get yourself under control, Mr. Valentine," he says darkly. "Both you and Miss Vetura are already under scrutiny this year. I expect you not to fuck this up for me again," he says, his mouth close to Quinn's ear. "Do you understand!?" the President yells the last sentence. Quinn claps a hand over his ear, nodding as the man's voice rings inside his skull.

"You understand how I run this show, Mr. Valentine. And as of right now, you're on thin ice. The re-election is next year, and I won't have one of my subordinates destroying my image for the public. Is that clear?"

Quinn nods a shallow nod so that he doesn't take his eyes off the President. "Clean up your mess, Mr. Valentine. I refuse to send you an Avox to take care of your own personal issues." With that, the dark presence at his shoulder is gone, opening the door so that Quinn can see a few flashes of white Peacekeeper uniforms before the door cuts off the noise of the crowd again. The silence now feels heavier, and he turns on the lights as bright as he can, eyes flicking back and forth between the corners of the room.

The liquor has already begun to stain his expensive rug, soaking the red fabric so that it looks almost like blood has been spilled. He feels queasy, and picks up the broken shards of glass as carefully as he can, ignoring the sharp pains as they cut into the soft pads of his fingers.

_What the hell is happening to me?_

* * *

**Author's Note****: Alright! So this was the first mainly Capitol-centric chapter for quite some time. It did have a focus on tributes but I hope it helps develop Vivianne and even Quinn a little better. What do you guys think about the evaluation? Any tributes you expected to rank higher? Lower? **

**The tribute interviews will begin next chapter; I am splitting them into two chunks. The first of which is **_**Chapter 17: Burning Under the Spotlight**_**, detailing interviews from Districts 1 through 6. Make sure to get your sponsor forms in! The link is in my profile, and I am currently working to take inventory of the few that have been submitted.**

**Have a nice day/night! :))**


	17. Chapter 17: Burning Under the Spotlight

_But one foot wrong and I'm gonna fall_

_Somebody gets it, somebody gets it_

_All the lights are on but I'm in the dark_

_Who's gonna find me? Who's gonna find me?_

-P!nk, One Foot Wrong

* * *

**CHAPTER 17**

**BURNING UNDER THE SPOTLIGHT**

* * *

**Crescentia Monroe** (**18**), **District 1 Tribute**

"Welcome, everybody! Welcome, welcome!" the Master of Ceremonies shouts out to the thousands of Capitolites who bought tickets to attend. But they aren't the only ones watching tonight's proceedings: every single television in Panem will be tuned onto the interviews. _I wonder if my friends will be watching_, Crescentia ponders.

Lavender will be beside herself with worry for Crescentia, and Gemma will be shaking her head on the couch, cursing the injury that prevented her from ever being considered as volunteer material. _The girl from Eleven has a limp, why they thought a torn shoulder would put her out of the running is beyond me_. She leans her head against the wall, feeling on edge with twenty-three pairs of eyes at her back. _But they know I can do this. _

_Outliers do it all the time, why couldn't I?_

Her hands fly nervously up to her hair, which has been elaborately done into double headband braids with thin golden vines running through them. Flowers grow off the vines, little delicate things, and she is feeling an irrational worry that they will all have fallen off by the time she reaches the chair she is supposed to sit in. _This isn't like me_, she thinks. _Normally I'm not worried._ _It'll be just like dancing with Turmalin, right?_

She's always felt like her dancing partner, Turmalin, was one step ahead of her. _He _was _training to be a dancing instructor though_, she recalls, rolling her eyes as the interviewer begins to engage in animated conversation with the crowds. People who can never seem to get to the point always annoyed Crescentia. Perhaps that was where she and Turmalin were similar… among other things - both had trained for the Hunger Games, and both had dropped out of enrollment to the Academy in order to pursue dancing - he too did not enjoy wasteful banter.

_Dancing requires breath, and breath cannot be wasted on things that can be shown rather than verbally expressed_, she echoes. _Training five times a week certainly means there isn't any to waste at all. _ Her heart begins to ache thinking about the hours spent in the little dancing studio, where each practice began with silent acknowledgement and ended with a light sheen of sweat on her forehead, a sense of satisfaction and confidence that soared higher than the birds in the sky. The work is just as demanding as training to kill someone at the Academy, but the way it makes Crescentia feel is unrivaled.

"We're so close to kicking off the twenty-ninth annual Hunger Games, I can taste it! Are you excited?!" shouts Mr. Valentine in a grandiose tone.

"Nope," Castiel says dryly behind her, making her shake in silent laughter. The audience screams their approval, however, and Castiel shrugs. "What do I know? They always say yes."

"Well, well. That's great to hear!" Mr. Valentine continues. "We just finished up our interview with or _glorious_ Head Gamemaker, and we're about to meet our _fantastic _tributes face-to-face for the second time!" This elicits screams from them again, and Crescentia exhales through her nose. _These people are ridiculous_.

"Ooh yes, I know we're all excited, especially after learning those scores!" The mass of Capitolites gets amped up, louder and louder until the cacophony is all any of the tributes can hear. Castiel says something else but it's lost in the roaring of excitement beyond the stage. The Anthem of Panem plays, the sound booming over them, and comes to a gradual end. Mr. Valentine drops his hand from his heart and seizes the microphone. "Alright, everyone! Give it up for the wonderful Crescentia Monroe!"

She's jerked forward like a marionette, but by her own premonitions rather than his words compelling her legs into motion. The shoes are really comfortable on Crescentia's feet, gold ballet flats accentuated with a light dusting of glitter that makes them shine in the lights. _Shine_. She used to detest her middle name for being so bland and boring, but when faced by the crowd, it is all she desires to do. _To shine_.

Confidence is key, and the dark purple dress the stylists chose for her certainly helps. It is burgundy and bright red in some places, creating a gentle ombre gradient. Two straps hold the dress up, but the right one is ruffled slightly to match the texture of the mid-calf length of the tulle ballet skirt. A third ruffled strap rests off-shoulder on her left arm, from which dozens of little golden flowers are embroidered into the dress, scattering around her waist.

"And how are you tonight, Miss Monroe?" Mr. Valentine asks her. "Are you enjoying your stay in the Capitol?" She shakes his hand and sits opposite him, trying to relax in the chair. _Mother always told me I wasn't shining bright enough…_ the thoughts rush into her head as she reimagines the disappointment on her mother's face when Crescentia elects to pursue dancing instead of training. A former Career herself, Mrs. Monroe had been adamant that one of her daughters enroll in the Academy. _Look at me now._ She notices silver roses embroidered into the interviewer's suit jacket, and smiles to herself. _Mine are gold, Valentine._

Compared to her, his suit looks like all of the color has been leached out of it. "I'm loving it," she grins, deciding on a voice with a sultry undertone. "It's so new and shiny, even compared to home," she tells him. "The showers in the training center have _so_ many buttons! It's a nice change, Mr. Valentine."

This gets the crowd going, and she fights to keep her eyes from betraying the exasperation she feels. _All these people do is blabber and cheer about nothing. Everything pleases them._ If Crescentia had to bet, she could stand up and deliver a speech about the golden hair that has begun to collect in that shower drain, and they would _still_ cheer and clap. _So long as they get to see blood tomorrow, they're fine, aren't they?_

"So, Crescentia, tell me," Mr. Valentine draws her back into the conversation. "We've all been dying to know why you aren't the selected volunteer. We all saw the fallout with this year's presumably selected trainee. So tell me, what prompted you to volunteer?"

_Because I have the same chances as everyone else here, trained or not_. It even _helps_ her case that years of rigorous training have given her a better physique than half of the small and thin tributes from the outer districts. "Well, Mr. Valentine, I felt that I've been waiting long enough to get the chance to enter the Games… having Nike be selected meant I wouldn't get to participate, with this being my last year and all," Crescentia lies through her teeth. _Let them think I've trained my whole life. _There is another reason too, apart from the odds. The same dissatisfaction that motivates Crescentia and her friends to steal fancy clothing from the various shops around town. The rush of excitement she had gotten from volunteering is still compressed in her chest. _The excitement of something new._

"Good answer! We love a determined girl, don't we? So what - or who - did you leave behind to be here today, Miss Monroe?"

_Now he's just padding for time._ "My parents. My mother, she was a former Career actually. Would have volunteered for the sixth Hunger Games, but someone else beat her to the punch. My sister and I both train for the Games," she tells him, speaking slowly to choose what information she wants to share with him. "They aren't sure I'm as good a pick as Nike, but I can prove them wrong. My friends… if the three of you are watching tonight, know that I'm coming back." Crescentia takes a deep breath. "My dancing partner too," she decides on a whim, cracking her stiff neck almost on cue. It's a bad habit she's picked up, but a familiar one to the pair of them.

"Well, it sounds like you have quite the support group. Might I ask you one thing though, darling?" His teeth are dazzling, and he leans forward so that she can see the makeup lightly coating his forehead.

"Sure thing, Mr. Valentine," Crescentia answers.

He sighs and reclines in his chair, the massive auditorium silent once more. "I'm sure you've anticipated this question… how in the name of Panem did you get a _one _for a score?"

"I think all of my allies are wondering the same thing," she starts slowly again. "I took a chance in the demonstration room, and it didn't work out. Could I have done something safe? Sure. But I think no one is going to see me coming, not even the _Gamemakers themselves_," she whispers, as if confessing some great secret to the man with the red pompadour.

"A bold statement! I like that. You mentioned you dance, as well?" She nods in response to his question, and sees his eyes light up in excitement. "I know we're running out of time, but could you maybe do a quick spin or something for us?"

Crescentia smiles broadly over her shoulder at the audience, who is absolutely eating it up. _They always love a good show. _"Well, of course I can!"

She stands from her chair, the familiar rush entering her veins as she pirouettes in the air, the tulle skirt flaring up as she does. The buzzer signals the end of her interview, but her elation only ends when she has stopped. The crowd is roaring in approval, and she is reminded of the parade just four days before. Crescentia feels as though her skin is shining under the lights, and imagines how jealous Turmalin must be that she is dancing in front of the Capitol.

The noise of the crowd carries her backstage, and she smiles to herself.

Crescentia Monroe is finally on top of the world.

* * *

**Hela Mistlyre** (**18**), **District 2 Tribute**

_He looks like a fool, and he's the one leading the rest of us._

The Capitol might adore Castiel's outfit, which must be an elegant play on his Reaping outfit, but when coupled with his over-the-top joking and excitement, it cloys in Hela's throat. _Gross_. He is wearing a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, black leather suspenders, a black ribbon tied around his shirt collar like a bow tie, and the shiniest black shoes in Panem on his feet, the edges of newsprint socks making an appearance as he crosses his legs.

_The shoes are even shinier than my hair_. The stylists changed up her traditional combat braid to a more elegant half-birdcage braid, which _still_ feels strange against her neck. The monochrome palette does look good, and she supposes the stylists have done a great job drumming up how charming and charismatic he can be. Castiel has the crowd laughing along with him, and she is thankful when he is dismissed. Hela sees Mr. Valentine stand up from his seat from her position behind the heavy curtain, and she tries to quell any uneasiness she feels.

"Please welcome on stage… Hela Mistlyre! Give it up for District Two!" a voice booms from onstage, the red-haired interviewer standing again to address the crowd.

At his beckoning, Hela struts out onto the stage with a certain swagger in her steps. Her dress catches the various lights that rain down from above like lilac and silver moonbeams, and a feeling of elation begins to unravel any tightness she has felt in her stomach. The dress is a black velvet off-the-shoulder gown that has a crossed-over paneled bodice, an attached belt around her waist, and long sleeves that start off tight but flare downward from her elbows toward a floor-length skirt. _And it's honestly gorgeous._ The bodice is embroidered with green dragons and gold swirls, the luxurious colors making her feel almost regal as she approaches the Master of Ceremonies. Mr. Valentine reaches out to shake her hand, but Hela deploys a frosty smile to her face as she ignores it, instead choosing to take a seat opposite him.

"Well, hello darling!" the interviewer gives her a wide grin, seemingly unfazed by her choice. His teeth are gleaming a blinding white in the beam of the spotlight. "You look wonderful tonight… quite the change from the usual image we have been getting of you, isn't it?" _What an ass_, she decides. _I've looked fine the other two times everyone here has seen me_. She would never quite admit it out loud, but the dress she's wearing - although her black pointed stiletto are a bit hard to walk in - might be the best thing she's ever worn on her body.

"Of course," Hela returns the grin, feeling the confidence heat up her face as the crowd drinks in her image. "The stylists fawned over me for _hours_, but I still think I look better with some armor on instead of a dress," she declares, eliciting a favorable noise from the crowd.

"That makes only one of us!" The man opposite her laughs, and the crowd follows suit. She begins to drum her fingers against the cool steel arm of the seat, the noise of her black acrylic nails lost in the commotion. "I'll stick with my suit, and let you don the armor. So can I ask you where you got that _lovely_ necklace, Miss Mistlyre?"

Her hand flies up to the necklace she is wearing, the rough cube-shaped gem catching all of the lights, sparkling like she has captured a star and begun to wear it around her neck. "My sister, Lokir." Hela falls silent for a moment, unsure of what she needs to say since she knows her sister is watching her right now, eyes glued to the screen hundreds of miles away. "We live as wards of the Academy, since our father, Hannibal Mistlyre, can't be bothered to raise us at all. It was her parting gift to me, and it sure looks a lot prettier than some of the other tokens." She tilts her chin upward at the remark, knowing that her dark confidence isn't lost on the crowd. Insecurities can be laid at the doorstep and picked up on the way out. Insecurities can be expressed in the dark, or howling at the moon from the roof. _Not here_.

"That's quite sad, isn't it?" Mr. Valentine replies, straightening the iconic lapels of his sugar pink jacket. "Hannibal was before my time, but I'd say you're following in his footsteps with that _ten_ as a score! How impressive, might I add. How d-"

She cuts him off, her eyes clouding over with sudden contempt for him, though she doubts flaring her nostrils will let anyone know she's upset. "Let me make this clear," Hela says quietly. _They aren't looking at my eyes, either_, she decides. She is wearing gold and amber eyeshadow as make-up with dragon scale patterns stenciled onto the upper outer corners and inner corners of her eyes, and so far it is the most impressive look Hela has seen. _I have to give them credit. They outdid themselves. _"I'm not doing this to follow in anyone's fucking footsteps. I'm doing this for _me_. _My_ footsteps."

"Very bold. I _like_ that! As I was saying, how does it feel to be one of the top scorers this year?"

_We have three minutes, but does he have to be so damn dismissive? _"It feels nice to have scored well, but the boy in the suspenders is the one leading this charade, not me." She folds her hands in her lap complacently, sure that Castiel must have heard what she has said. _As much as I like him, he's the top competition here_, she thinks.

"Castiel? Do you think you're better suited for the role as leader?"

"Of course," Hela belts out a mocking laugh. "Any one of us could be, but since we both scored tens, it would seem up for contention." _Too bad the others seem to like him better,_ she scorns them quietly. She knew it wasn't wise to seek asylum with them from her fears. _They like me no better than anyone else_. Her mind briefly wanders to Lokir, and quicker still to Asher, his gorgeous red hair dancing in and out of Hela's mental image as elusive as a fox.

"You mentioned he was leading the 'charade'. Would you like to elaborate for the crowd?" the interviewer prompts her.

"Well of course. It's all a charade, if we wind up killing each other at some point or other. You saw it last year when Talisa killed her ally." A few shocked murmurs come from the crowd, who seems to cling to her every word like a lifeline. "We hunt as a pack, yes. But we all know only one of us will come out of it alive. It is none of my concern… yet."

"Sounds like we're up for quite the show this year!" Mr. Valentine says, clapping his hands together. His hair, gelled into a pompadour that he seems to only bring out on the night of the interviews. "So are you concerned that you'd be neighbors with your father after this is all over?"

"He can always move out of the Victor's Village if it makes him uncomfortable, yes."

"Phew! Sounds like _everyone_ should be watching out for you, eh?" There is a hint of kindness in his words, as though he is trying to bolster Hela in the eyes of sponsors, but his words come across as fake overall.

"Sure." she says coolly.

"Well, what kinds of weapons do you use, Hela? I know we are all dying to know," he asks as he gestures to the crowd.

"A net and a spear work wonders on some of the cannon fodder we have this year. A whip, however, has the potential to make things very interesting," she muses, a dangerous smirk crossing her face.

"Oh, I _like_ that," the Master of Ceremonies compliments her. "Sounds like you earned your ten on wit alone… cannon fodder!" he guffaws. "Anything else you'd like to tell our audience before the buzzer goes off?"

"No, but I do have something for the tributes," she says, sitting even straighter in her seat. Hela doesn't bother looking behind her, where the other twenty-one tributes are lined up behind the curtains. _They're listening. All of them_, she knows. And it feels so good to be heard for once. "Get your sleep tonight, or don't… it really is up to you. But with less than twenty-four hours before we disembowel you, perhaps a better-rested mind might help you live."

The buzzer goes off, and Hela leaves as complacent as she entered, hoping her demeanor was well-placed enough to earn points with a favorable audience.

* * *

**Brita Edison** (**17**), **District 3 Tribute**

"The main reason why I volunteered and trained for the Games is to become a victor. It'd bring honor to my family, honor to my district, honor to myself, and with that status, with that power... I could change the world around me. Why wouldn't I want that?" the fourth Career on stage says. _I'll admit, he seems like one of the more likeable ones_. The boy has discussed his family and their charity work with a humble sort of pride thus far, and she can tell that the audience is loving it. After the scary girl from Two had threatened Brita and the rest of the tributes, he was almost a welcome sight on stage. Moses is wearing a fitted navy blue blazer with a bright red pocket square, but it's the shirt beneath that catches her attention. It's a simple white shirt, but tailored just tight enough to show off his chest muscles. The stylists darkened his eyebrows too, and it is becoming of him, or so she thinks.

_Why do all of the enemies have to be so good-looking?_ Brita wonders as the Master of Ceremonies gets up to shake his hand as the buzzer goes off. _He won a nine, if I remember right_. Her own four seems weak in comparison, but there are tributes with worse scores. _Girl from One did worse than me_. It's something that doesn't quite sit right with her, taking a chance in front of the Gamemakers. Her turn in the demonstration room had consisted of her sweating bullets trying to display the survival knowledge she had picked up from the trainers. _Why risk a low score?_ Her mind begins to wander again, but she's immediately snapped back into the present as Mr. Valentine turns back to the curtain and curls a finger at her.

"Our next young lady, Brita Edison!" A round of applause follows his words, and she crosses the stage. Her strappy black heels are surprisingly easier to walk in than she originally thought. _Walking out of the styling room didn't go so well_. She had almost knocked over a lamp, but perhaps now that all eyes are on her she has been able to get the hang of it.

"Well, I hope your hands aren't tired yet, folks! We've got a long way to go." Mr. Valentine says with a cheerful smile. _Being from Twelve must suck… they're last for everything._ "So tell me, Brita: how have you found the Capitol so far?"

She wasn't quite expecting a question like that, but answers the question with a bite of sarcasm at the back of her mouth. "I think it has been a wonderful experience. The technology alone is fascinating… back home in Three our showers only have two settings, and the only elevator is in the Justice Building. Ours is actually broken, so the lot of you might want to look into that."

Mr. Valentine laughs. "Noted!" he says, a hand placed dramatically on his chest.

"The food is good too," she continues. _I can make them like me too._ "Much better than what my brother can cook." Brita winks to the cameras, and gets rewarded from some laughs in the crowd. _Hopefully he takes that to heart, so he can make good on the fancy new kitchen we're going to get._

"Haha! Much better than what I can cook too, I'm sure. I'm glad you're enjoying yourself. You certainly look splendid tonight, Miss Edison!" he compliments her. Not as good as the Careers, she'll admit. But the gold mini dress she's wearing reflects the stage lighting with all of the sequins sewn onto it. It has a slightly flared skirt with a mesh lining on the hem and a tie-back detail running up the bare skin on her back, making her feel scandalous rather than smart.

_I like it though_. "Why thank you, Mr. Valentine! If I come back here, you should definitely show me those cooking skills. You'll have some time to learn, I'm sure. A couple of weeks at most, but I'm hoping I can be here sooner than that." Brita hopes the cameras catch the secretive look in her eyes. _I've got one hell of a plan too, but I need allies to help me out_.

"We wouldn't want to set the stage on fire, now would we?!" the interviewer laughs. "Those curtains were expensive! A bit dirty though, if you ask me," he jokes back with her. The curtains are perfectly clean, lathered and scrubbed down before each appearance on air. "Have you made any allies, Brita? Clever girl like you, should be able to find some."

_Ouch_. Despite her mind going there, Brita had not been wanting to discuss her options on stage in front of not only the other tributes, but the entire world as well. "Honestly? I've talked to a few people… one of them wasn't keen on my inclusion, but I figure when I find them after the bloodbath tomorrow perhaps they will reconsider," she tells him tentatively, and he leans forward in his seat looking concerned. Mr. Valentine takes one of her hands in both of his, which are surprisingly soft.

She looks into his slush-colored eyes and sees actual compassion there, in place of the hawkish superiority she faced with the stylists trying to comb her auburn hair into a sleek high ponytail. "I have no doubt they will! You certainly seem capable." The crowd murmurs in agreement. "What about Edward?"

Her stomach lurches at the mention of her district partner, who is no doubt bouncing on his toes behind the curtains. "Edward, _no_. He's fucking hopeless, honestly."

"Well that isn't very nice of you!" he exclaims indignantly, any compassion shifting into a look of shock. _Good_. _I'm not here to be pitied_, she thinks.

"It's the truth, Mr. Valentine," Brita tells him with a sharp nod. "You'd better prepare yourself before he comes onstage. Maybe duct-tape a mirror onto his forehead… he hasn't shut up about meeting you all day." He looks a bit confused by her words, but regains his composure. The crowd has fallen a little too quiet for her liking. _At least I took him down lower than me_, she thinks, a feeling of vindictiveness sparking like electricity in her fingertips.

"Well, you seem prepared! I best prepare myself too, then," says the interviewer, standing up to shake Brita's hand rather formally. "Best of luck, Miss Edison, especially with winning over those allies! I'll be rooting for you."

The buzzer goes off, and she fights back angry tears as the crowd remains oddly quiet, trying not to ruin the black eyeliner on her face. _I'm not sure anyone will be rooting for me_.

* * *

**Siren Thalassa** (**17**), **District 4 Tribute**

The resemblance is uncanny. _Creepy is a better word for it_. She and Alton stand in line, watching the scrawny boy from Three on the stage. If possible, the audience is even quieter than they had been with Brita's exit, because he is dressed very similarly to the Master of Ceremonies. _Deliberately, too_. Where Mr. Valentine is wearing a sugar pink jacquard suit with large silver roses embroidered into it, Edward is dressed in a candy pink jacket, a powder pink shirt, and the same black dress socks and shoes as the interviewer. Even his hair is dyed a temporary red, slicked down with gel, slight red stains visible by his hairline. It's quite a strange experience to see him walk out and shake Mr. Valentine's hand. _Edward looks like the more pathetic version of him._ The crowd seems to think so too, especially when he begins to talk about his excitement for the Hunger Games. _I've never seen that from a Three tribute before. Hell, _I'm _not excited for the Games, but he is?_

While he and some of the other tributes seem ready for the blood and the macabre excitement of the Games, Siren is ready too. _I'll do what I have to do to survive. Sometimes you have to do things you aren't proud of to survive another day._ It's a sentiment shared by Alton's mentor Talisa, the Victor of the last Games. _You have to do whatever you need to do._ She killed the boy from District One when his back was turned just to come back home.

_I'll do whatever it takes, too_, she thinks as the buzzer sounds and she needs to shake the thoughts out of her head. _I'm next_. Siren fruitlessly smooths the front of her strapless gown, adjusting its sweetheart neckline as she does. The dress itself is gray and silver in color, covered in overlapping sequins to resemble fish scales alongside some gorgeous metallic purple and gray-blue accents. The skirt begins to transition into a dispersing gradient of iridescent white and holographic palettes to resemble ocean waves and seafoam. So far, the only outfit she would label as tacky is the kid in front of her, as both she and Alton look stunning tonight. _District Four always gets some of the best stylists. I suppose it's easy to mirror the ocean's beauty, isn't it?_

They added some sea-salt spray to give her hair more volume, something which she genuinely enjoyed. The beachy waves remind her of home, as a few days in the Capitol have started to turn her hair softer and slicker. _It almost makes me feel like I'm up on the cliffs again_.

But whereas singing to the great blue expanse is often a solo event, the euphoria of tonight will be shared across Panem. At Mr. Valentine's call, she sashays out onto stage. The crowd goes wild, and Siren tosses back her hair exaggeratedly, making a big show of adjusting the waves to frame her face. She shakes his hand and sits carefully in the seat. _It's a definite change from entertaining sailors in the pub, that's for sure._ All eyes are on her.

"Well hello, Miss Thalassa!" he grins at her. She shoots him back a dazzling smile to rival his own. Fully aware that the cameras are focused on her, Siren bites her lip in a seductive manner. _Hey, the flirty angle has worked before._ Talisa certainly could have drummed it up a bit more, but the other girl had instead tried and failed to appear intimidating. _Not as successful as Hela, that's for sure._ "I must say, I'm certainly impressed by your abilities to acclimate to all of this so rapidly! And I _have_ to let you know just how fantastic that dress looks on you, my darling."

_Oh!_ "Why, thank you, Mr. Valentine!" she says, giggling a little. "You look amazing too, I'm digging the roses!" she winks at him.

"O-ho, thank you!" If he is blushing, she can't tell behind the light layer of makeup on his face. _I wonder how good-looking he is off air_? "Now, we've all been wondering just how you managed an invite with the Careers? How do you think the Pack will perform this year?"

She shrugs her shoulders. "I think we'll do fine, to be honest with you. I might have been Reaped, but a six is a pretty good score, I must say. We do have a couple of blossoming romances within our group though…" another wink sends the audience crazy. _Of course. They're suckers for a good romance_. Part of her feels bad for throwing it out there, but if it'll take the attention off the fact that she was Reaped by the system, Siren decides she can live with it.

"Care to tell us who to keep our eyes on?" he asks her, and she shakes her head.

"You'll just have to watch and see," she tells them, a rueful smirk on her face.

"Oh alright, Miss Thalassa. I suppose we can wait a few more days. So how did you get that six, might I ask?" He leans forward on the edge of his seat, as if the words Siren is going to say are the most important thing in the world to him. It feels good to have such an attractive man lend her an ear… most of the men on the waterfront and in the shipyards are usually the most weathered of the lot. Whereas their skin is beaten down by the sun and the wind, Tarquinius Valentine's face is smooth and blemish-free, even without the makeup if she had to guess.

_But of course, they're all perfect here. Nothing is ever wrong enough for them_. The people of the Capitol have never had to experience some of life's hardships and tragedies, and part of her wishes they would. But hating them for something they haven't done, and it certainly won't earn Siren a family. _Maybe Dad will turn up if I have a nice enough place for him to stay._ Maybe her father doesn't recognize her - he certainly has never been invested in her life - but perhaps he could learn to love a daughter, and she could have a family.

_It's more likely he'll never show up. He hasn't, and he won't_, the realist in her silences the optimist, and she has to blink to filter out the harsh lights she hadn't realized she was staring at. "Sure. I work as a trawler and one of my co-workers was also enrolled in the Academy. I guess he was never fully invested in training, but he taught me a great deal of spear work. We would practice a lot on the docks after work." _Until the sun set, and he went home to his family. And you went home to nothing_. Maybe that's why she's been looking so hard at the ragtag group of Careers as if they are a family. _In a way, they are_. Until they die, that is.

But all of the little moments over the past few days in the Capitol have begun to coalesce into something that makes her feel whole. _Like dancing with Crescentia, or pushing Alton to act on his feelings_. She has even seen Castiel and Hela, who seem so driven for the victory, stop and have such _human_ moments with the rest of them. Part of her knows that she needs to keep a distance from them. _The Careers always crash and burn._ But even though Hela has already approached her with plans for when that happens, Siren knows that she can't kill any of these people. _I have to have a different contingency plan… maybe I can ally with that girl from Six instead, and I won't have to face any of the rest of them. _

"I think that's quite impressive, Siren," the interviewer is saying, and the crowd is nodding along in agreement. She hasn't been quite paying attention the entire interview, but answering most of his questions vaguely is sure to leave her with a mysterious aura for the audience to digest. "Well, time's almost up for us, but I want to wish you the best of luck as well finding your place with them," he says gently, and she looks up sharply at his intuitive words.

The buzzer goes off, and Siren sees something reflected in Mr. Valentine's eyes that give her hope. It takes her a minute to realize that what she sees is simply herself, radiant as she burns under the ethereal spotlight.

* * *

**Nyxandrea Nexus** (**16**), **District 5 Tribute**

The metal is cool to her touch as her fingers nervously caress the spires of the sun. Her brother's necklace feels heavy around her neck, a constant reminder of what she has been taken from. Though parts of living in District Five were never her favorite, Nyx misses the comforting sense of familiarity that accompanied waking up every day in the gray urban landscape that she and Sorrel call home.

The homesickness seems to permeate her skin. The feelings are unshakable as Nyx tries to avoid looking out behind the curtains to where the tall boy from District Four is being interviewed. He looks amazing in his petrol blue suit, which favorably compliments his olive skin.

"Come on, you know I can do this!" the boy cheers, pumping his fist into the air. She can see the stiff collar of his white undershirt from behind the stage. _It's almost as bright as Mr. Valentine's teeth._ The vast amount of technology available in the Capitol has amazed her since they first stepped off the train. _The cosmetics that these people wear_…

Part of Nyx wants to feel jealous at all of the glamourous Capitol ladies with their faces caked in makeup, their elegant hairstyles and outrageous dresses. _They're so refined_. She's always had a problem being as ladylike as some might expect someone of her age to be, and after seeing Brita and the three Career girls walk out on stage with their amazing dresses and flawless complexions makes her more than a little self-conscious.

The Master of Ceremonies winks at the boy. "Well you know what they say, Alton. 'May the odds be ever in your favor'... and I certainly think you have some odds on your side…"

"And do we?" Nyx murmurs aloud, resting her head against the wall. The first thing the stylists did when getting her in the room was take her hair out of its usual ponytail. Her light brown hair has been done in a half-crown braid that she wishes she could replicate at home. _It looks so much better than anything I could have done. It might get in the way, though, to have loose hair when running._ Another nail is driven into her heart when she thinks of running in the morning with Dean, before dawn had broken into the sky.

"Well, there are two of us." Sorrel's words startle her, for she hadn't realized she had spoken aloud. She looks behind her in line, eyes connecting with Sorrel's. He gives her a reassuring smile, she is grateful to have an excuse to look away from the massive crowd since the stirrings of stage fright have begun to make an entrance in her stomach. "You know I'd do anything for you, darling," Sorrel whispers, lips twitching into a smile.

"I sure hope so, Sorrel," Nyx admits, folding her arms across her chest. _He's so damn unflappable all the time_, she complains to herself. _It's hard to tell if he's teasing me or not_. Since their shared moment on the parade, when Sorrel had grabbed and kissed her with his warm, sultry lips, she's been questioning him the entire way. _Hell, I've been questioning myself too_. The only romantic knowledge Nyx has ever had was a halfhearted version of "the Talk" with her mother, and it's easy enough to see how well that panned out for her.

Sorrel nods impassively, though his eyes speak differently. "Hey," he addresses her, taking one of her slender porcelain hands into one of his own warm brown ones. "It's gonna go fine, okay? Promise. Don't overthink it, N-" he catches himself, earning him a smile from her- "Nyx."

_He's finally coming around to not calling me by my full name_. The thought makes her happy"I guess," she replies. "But we're going after a bunch of Careers. Brita didn't do so hot out there, see?" She's feeling a strange mixture of elation and fear right now that makes her want to dunk her head in a bucket of cold water. _The world hasn't stopped spinning since I got here_, she decides. _And Sorrel is the only piece of home I have left_. But does that warrant a relationship with him? Does he _want_ a relationship? _Do I?_

"It's okay. The Capitol likes us. They cheered our names during the parade, remember?" He says gently, cupping the side of her face. The action makes Nyx blush hard, the heat creeping to her cheeks. Nyx tries to hide her face with her hand, but Sorrel gently lowers it. Her nails are polished navy blue and coated with a chunky top layer of glittering colors that sparkle like a trapped galaxy at her fingertips. Nyx stares at her nails, trying to ignore the line of tributes behind them or the crowd in front of them.

She's about to protest that the chariot rides was all his doing, when he interrupts her. "Besides," Sorrel says, his expression stolid, "You look absolutely gorgeous."

Now she blushes even harder, but the sleeves of her dress aren't enough to hide her reddening cheeks. They're about three-quarters down her arm, and slightly flounced. The dress is a blue-gray star mesh dress with tiny sequinned and embroidered stars subtly scattered all throughout the fabric. It has a bustier underneath that helps accentuate what little chest she has to work with, and a full midi-skirt to hide her runner's legs. _I almost look like a proper lady_, Nyx thinks. But there is still the shadow of doubt in her mind that she can't erase, no matter what lies she tells herself. "You really think so?" Nyx asks him, staring into his dark brown eyes.

The first genuine grin Nyx has seen today breaks through his normal unyielding neutrality, as though the heat from her flaming cheeks has somehow softened the rigid ice of Sorrel's own. "I know so, darling." Sorrel squeezes her hand and she wants to melt right then and there, the soft glow of his three-piece suit illuminating the small space between them. In the darkness behind stage, it has changed from a black suit with cornflower accents to neon blue ones that glow faintly in the shadows. It has neon blue pinstripes and a dress shirt that is partially blocked out by a black waistcoat. Sorrel is wearing a black tie with neon blue circuit patterns, and even his shoelaces seem to glow a little.

It makes all of the stars and sequins on her dress reflect the dusky light, so that the two of them are bathed in something soft and secret. _Like an entire constellation is mapped out between us_. She breathes slowly, wishing that she could be back under the slate gray skies of District Five, with Sorrel's hands in her own. _Had things been different, I might have walked with him rather than running with Dean_, she ponders. _I don't want the Games to take this away from me_.

The voice of the interviewer cuts through the somber air behind the curtains. "And our next tribute is the lovely Nyxandrea Nexus, give it up for District Five, ladies and gentlemen!" Sorrel gives her a smile and lets her go, gently disentangling his fingers from her own. Whatever smiles he had worn are gone, replaced by his usual indifference. _But it's easier to see _him _now_, _through his eyes_. Nyx isn't quite sure what caused him to act this way, always the most mature and refined member of her brother Solander's friend group, but she wants to find out. _I want to know why I am able to crack it_.

"Well hello Miss Nexus, how are you this evening?" Mr. Valentine asks her as she walks out in her blue-gray pumps to shake his hand.

"I'm doing alright, and uh, w-what about you?" Nyx stammers in embarrassment, the thousands of eyes in the crowd all set upon her, watching her struggle.

The interviewer chuckles, his eyes full of warmth. "I'm fine! But we're here to talk about you, darling," he grins. _Different when Sorrel calls me that_, Nyx decides. The same feeling of butterflies fluttering inside her chest does not surface when Mr. Valentine addresses her the same way. "So how are you enjoying your stay here so far?"

"I miss home, you know," Nyx admits. "But…" In truth, she does miss the familiarity. The novelty of the Capitol is entertaining but it leaves a bitter taste in her mouth by how ecstatic they are to send her to her death. "The Capitol isn't a bad place to be," she finishes lamely.

Mr. Valentine smiles. "I can get behind that! We certainly love it here." The crowd cheers in response, a sea of cascading jewels down the slope of bleachers, their hair and clothes all brighter and more eccentric than the last. "So, we all saw that _wonderful _kiss between you and your district partner Mr. Nettleson back just a few nights ago… and we've all been dying to know, do the two of you have _any_ feelings for each other?"

"I-We." Nyx stops herself from stammering any more to the audience, who is leaning forward in anticipation. _I'm not _that _easily swept away by romance,_ her brain protests. _But that would be a lie, wouldn't it?_ Nyx sighs. "Yes," she affirms to the man in pink sitting across from her. The crowd goes crazy, cheering and hooting like a bunch of young children. Their confidence in her makes her feel strangely better, as though the burning spotlight and her flaming cheeks can be forgotten about. Nyx raises her chin, grass-green eyes sweeping out to take in the crowd.

"I've kissed him again, too," she says, blushing. _I've never been a good liar anyway._ The roar is louder as she decides that she feels _something_ for Sorrel. The faith of the crowd carries Nyx through the remainder of the interview, and even with her standard score of a five, she is feeling better about her chances. _Like Sorrel said, there are two of us. We can make that work. I can make this work._

The buzzer rings in her ears, but no longer does it sound like a cry of doom - like the Reaping bell - and instead it feels liberating. No longer does it make her feel nervous that she will be scorned, or feel misplaced like poor Brita.

_The only timer that matters now is the sixty seconds before the land-mines deactivate and the Games begin tomorrow. _

* * *

**Axel Richthofen** (**16**), **District 6 Tribute**

He narrows his eyes as the boy from District Five takes his blushing partner's place on stage. Though Axel noticed the boy's suit had dusky neon accents to it behind the curtain, the spotlights have effectively eradicated the traces of neon from whichever components of his suit were glowing. The accents now look a pale cornflower blue.

_The pinstripes need to go_, Axel bemoans the choice. _They look too much like Mr. Yorusco's stripes_, he thinks to himself. His boss had worn pinstripes too, the tight custom-tailored suit barely able to confine his massive bulk. _Bitch was greedy like a pig too_, Axel scoffs as he remembers his fist connecting with Nandan Yorusco's nose in the Justice Building. _Bitch said he'd miss my service._

He leans against the wall, the matte leather jacket making a soft sound as it brushes against the smooth concrete. _The stylists did a number on me_, he groans. _How dare they force me into this charade? Isn't killing me enough?_ If there's one thing Axel won't admit to anyone - especially given the prevalence of the question being issued forth from the interviewer's lips - it's how much he actually enjoys the Capitol in comparison to home. _If this is what the devil is willing to give me in exchange for the cost of my soul, who am I to begrudge it_? After all, every human is flawed and capable of great sins and atrocities. _At least the rest of them are worse than I am_, he scoffs, condemning them within his own mind.

_Just because the beds are softer and the water doesn't smell like rust doesn't make this place any more magical than the slums back home_, he decides. Neither place, in Axel's book, is worth keeping around. He doesn't look as extravagant as some of the other tributes, such as the Career girls or the boy from Three, whose stylists thought it was _such_ a good idea to dress him up in the same color scheme as the infamous Master of Ceremonies. Axel's wearing a black matte leather blazer with epaulettes on his shoulders that clink softly when he moves. They're composed of silver spikes and draping thin silver chains on the shoulders, and seem to serve no purpose besides making him look like an informally decorated Peacekeeper.

_If Mercedes' hair wasn't blocking the stage, I could get a ticket to watch this mess_, he thinks. Not that he is interested in the other tributes, but when the pair from District Five kissed each other on the chariots, the attention they got was sure to resurface down the line. _Ten bucks they don't even like each other, and it's all a scheme_, he grins. His district partner slouches against the wall, a few strands of hair escaping from the high chignon with dutch braids her stylists teased her dark hair into. Finally, he has a clear view of the stage. Axel could have stepped off from the wall, but looking eager to meet the Capitolites isn't something that he's interested in. _I couldn't give a rats ass, unlike this kid._

The other boy's hair has had some work, with texture spray and curl cream worked through his curly black hair to give the steel wool texture some more volume. He isn't listening to what the boy says - personally, Axel could care less - but the crowd seems excited by how charismatic he sounds. _Imagine being nice to these glitter-fed Capitolites. _He is certainly impressed by the stoicism on the boy's face. _It takes a lot to keep up a mask like that_, he muses, the amount of courteousness between tribute and interviewer laid on so thickly that it becomes smothering and Axel wants to gag in disgust.

"So, Mr. Nettleson," the interviewer smiles graciously. "You moved to District Five from… District Eleven, was it?" Murmurs arise from the crowd, and Axel wants to roll his eyes. "Would you be kind enough to share why you had clearance to move?"

Sorrel shrugs elegantly, his face remaining composed. "My father works for a Capitol program that was working to research means of generating sustainable power through photosynthesis," he explains. "I moved to District Five at age four, sir," he says respectfully to the man. _Ouch_, Axel thinks. He can't imagine moving between Districts; most of the unlucky souls born in the cesspit of District Six stay there until they die. Part of Axel wonders if the boy must have started to act so prim and proper as a way to cope with his new surroundings, much as Axel had fallen into pace with the criminal underbelly of Six through putting on a mask of his own.

But his sympathy for Sorrel ends there, a fleeting notice overshadowed by growing resentment for the boy. He's well-spoken, and Axel finds it jarring how smoothly their conversation flows in comparison to the breathless, blushing girl that went before him. Mr. Valentine smiles at the other boy with his dazzling white teeth, further deepening the scowl on Axel's face. "So, Mr. Nettleson, how is it that you came to know MIss Nexus, if you don't mind me asking?"

Sorrel takes a deep breath, never dropping his chin from it's position as he stares directly at the top of Mr. Valentine's head. "Well, sir, I've known her for quite some time, to tell you the truth. After the move, you see, I developed a… friendship with her brother Solander after the move." His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes when he talks, which seems to unnerve the interviewer. "I met her once when I was over at her house, and chanced upon her from time to time back home," he admits. The Capitol coos at the boy, a light smattering of applause rippling through the crowd. Axel pulls his lighter out of the pocket of his black fitted pants, which have taken on a metallic sheen in the incendiary red light backstage. He is no longer interested in whatever unrequited love affairs the District Five tributes are having, and flicks it open and closed with a small _snick_ as the metal locks into itself.

It's an old habit he's picked up, and one that has clearly begun to annoy Mercedes, who must _actually_ be paying attention to the interviews. She turns around slowly to stare at him in annoyance, and he shakes his head, chuckling in monotone to himself. "Problem, princess?" he enunciates slowly, lazily raising an eyebrow to her as her expression becomes affronted.

"No, Axel. I'm _not_ the one who has a problem," she huffs. He sends a smug, condescending smile her way, basking in Mercedes' irritated glare. _This is too easy_. He puts a foot against the wall, his buckled boots catching a sliver of light from the stage. Axel continues to flick the lighter open and closed even when she's turned back around, even more pleased with the way the muscles in her shoulders seem to tense up.

He shrugs. _Doesn't matter to me_. Axel certainly is no stranger to doing controversial things just to do them. To see people's reactions. As if on cue, he rubs his bicep, where a curling snake tattoo makes its home on his arm. The stylists debated for an hour whether or not they should cover it up, until he snapped at them. _Why would it matter if these sleeves cover it up anyway? _They still insisted on covering _something _up, and settled on the dark circles under his eyes, attacking them with foundation and primer.

They left a thin edge behind to blend with smudged black eyeliner. It makes him look more fresh-faced than he had when he originally surrendered himself to the prideful stylists, temporarily eliminating the insomnia he has been struggling with for the past few years. His hair too, was not spared from the zealous hand of his stylist, who spiked up his dirty blond bangs with volume and life by a touch of texture gloss, even going as far to trim his undercut.

The boy's buzzer finally goes off, and he listens to the interviewer call Mercedes on stage as if his head is underwater and Mr. Valentine in his pink suit is some kind of god calling down from the heavens to rouse him. He watches her go, her stride nervous as she walks out on stage in brown criss-crossing lace up heels with silver studs, her walk mirroring the lack of confidence she knows she must be feeling. Mercedes wears an olive green ombre mini-dress with an A-line babydoll silhouette that accentuates her hips rather nicely, Axel notes. _Here I was thinking she was just broad in all the wrong places_. The thin spaghetti straps of the dress help to show off muscles he knows she earned working shifts in the aerial hub, and Axel defensively crosses his arms in jealousy, lighter held in his closed fingers.

If all goes to plan, she'll be dead and he'll have her supplies by the time the sun sets in the arena, and Mercedes Benson won't have to worry about his habits where she's going. _Everyone's quiet when you put them six feet under_, he remembers Volvo telling him. Mr. Yorusco entrusted Volvo to teach Axel the workings of their world, and so he learned. He watches Mercedes talk animatedly to Mr. Valentine, their momentary dispute forgotten about, and narrows his eyes. _People only talk to you when they need something_, he contemplates, remembering countless nights doling out drugs to the strangers who would _ask_ and the strangers who would _pay_, like his father. _If they don't need something, they don't care._

He opens the lighter again, remembering robbing the pockets of an unconscious druggie who had tried to get his fix without paying Axel. Remembering how empowering it felt to knock the light out of his greedy eyes, Axel wonders if killing would yield a similar feeling.

_Death is more final_, he decides as Mercedes is ushered off the stage. "Alright everyone," the Master of Ceremonies calls. "Please welcome Axel Richthofen of District Six!" calls Mr. Valentine in his ridiculous pink suit from the stage. Axel sighs, shaking his head.

He steps out of the shadows and into the intense light of the spotlight as it beats down on his shoulders, feeling its scouring gaze heat up the piercings in his ears and burn the back of his neck. He pockets the lighter and surveys the audience with a stony expression, wishing there was still gas left in the wick and gasoline drenching every member of the crowd. His fingers twitch as he ignores Mr. Valentine's handshake, instead taking a seat and staring blankly ahead of him. _We do this the hard way_, he silently challenges the man, who seems to understand.

His fingers twitch again, opening and closing a phantom lighter. _If I could ignite this world and burn it all down, I wouldn't hesitate._ But it is not the lethal flames of intentional arson that lick at his boots; rather the quiet burning of the spotlight above.

It pisses Axel off to no end that the penance for his deeds has come early.

* * *

**Author's Note****: *long internal scream***

**Well, uh… it's been a while, huh? I suppose I don't get much of an excuse, so I won't really bother trying to explain why these POVs were hard for me to write or what's been going on. One chapter closer to the bloodbath, I guess. Major thanks to our resident stylist, ShunKazamis-Girl, who worked really damn hard to make sure all of these interview outfits were amazing. What did you think of the ones shown so far? **

**The outfits might take a couple of days to be fully posted onto the blog, depending on their schedule. The blog has been finished for a while now, and does include pages on every tribute as well as other supporting characters, so make sure to go check it out!**

**Sponsoring will remain open until I post the bloodbath, but do please consider getting those in if you haven't. A poll will also be posted up on my profile when the next chapter is posted (since the interviews will be over). Information about it can be found in the sponsoring section on my profile. If any of that is confusing to you, do feel free to ask.**

**Anyway, have a nice day/night, and I hope you all are doing well wherever you are at! :)**


	18. Chapter 18: Behind the Curtain

_And with them a loss, round of applause_

_sometimes it feels like they want me to lose_

_It's entertainment, is that an excuse?_

_No, but the question that lingers, whether win or lose_

-Rihanna, Question Existing

* * *

**CHAPTER 18**

**BEHIND THE CURTAIN**

* * *

**Winston Thorn** (**18**), **District 7 Tribute**

The twelve remaining tributes wait in a hallway shrouded in darkness. Winston can hear some irregular breathing toward the back of the line, as though someone is openly expressing how nervous they are to appear on stage. He wonders for a moment if it is Arley, although he cannot place the location. When he looks over his shoulder, the pair from District Eight seem to be standing in silence. _Not quite a camaraderie_. The stoicism in their faces almost makes Winston feel nervous to the point where he has stopped looking behind him.

_It's like some twisted kind of job interview_, he muses. _Some are just more prepared than others_. And some people, like the boy from District Six, clearly do not seem to care about getting hired. He and Bash watched the first half of the tributes file out onto stage, the Careers too far ahead to hear as they whispered to each other at the front of the line. However, Districts Five and Six are two they can hear more audibly before they're called onto the stage, with one pair reassuring each other and the other having a short-lived argument over some kind of clicking noise. Winston isn't the type to be fazed easily by insignificant annoyances, but the hundreds of people in front of them do concern him to a certain extent.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" the boy on stage demands, his eyes narrowed at the interviewer in his sugar pink jacquard suit. _Nothing like being aggressive_, Winston winces. So far the entire interview has consisted of Axel slouching in his chair, trying to answer Mr. Valentine's questions in the most monotonous tone possible. _Is he trying to bore the Capitol?_ Winston finds himself wondering. Apart from four of the careers and the extremely tall boy from Ten - who Winston recalls predicting would get a score to rival the Careers - both Sixes scored a seven each during the private sessions. _And yet neither of them seem like they're capable of it_.

Winston won't deny that the glowering look that usually has taken a permanent residence on Axel's face makes him uncomfortable, but there's no way the boy stared at the Gamemakers and they gave him a _seven_. "District Six has had some good stylists this year," he comments to Bash in a low whisper, his eyes taking in the fitted black leather blazer that Axel is wearing. His black pants seem to have a subtle metallic sheen to them that looks almost incendiary, but the boy takes no notice of them like Winston would have. The fashion in the Capitol never ceases to amaze him; it's a far cry from the standard flannels he would wear at home, but the crazy colors excite him nonetheless.

"Yeah they do!" Bash whispers forcefully, her cheeks shining as they reflect the stage lights.

"Nothing, nothing, just saying," Mr. Valentine amends to the discreet hostility on stage. He looks uncomfortable too, mirroring how Winston already feels about Axel. The Master of Ceremonies almost looks relieved when the buzzer sounds and he can usher the boy off stage.

"I'm next!" Bash grins at him and grabs his hand, her lips gleaming a bright pink with the soft lip tint that the District Seven stylists applied to her face. On cue, Mr. Valentine stands again and calls out her name over the pleasant clapping of the crowd.

"Good luck!" He smiles back at her optimistically, watching her turn heel and walk across the line of shadow the mohair curtains create and into the spotlight. Once the light hits her, Bash's dress looks much more magnificent. The peach-colored mesh tulle dress has a light blue wash at the bodice, slightly puffed sleeves, and a score of pleated ruffles along the neckline and sleeves. The dress fades into a navy blue gradient at the skirt that Winston likes, as when she walks, it almost looks like there is water rippling at her knees.

"It's good to see you, Tarquinius!" she exclaims, shaking his hand. Any uneasiness the audience had when Axel was on the stage is replaced by Bash and her cute overconfidence. _She reminds me of my sister_, Winston thinks, feeling an ache in his chest.

_Both of them are too headstrong for their own good_, he decides as the Master of Ceremonies pretends to look taken aback. "It's good to see you too, darling! Goodness, you're excitable, aren't you?" he asks Bash. The grin on her face only grows wider and she gives the interviewer a sly wink that makes Winston want to bury his face in his hands. _Maybe not exactly like my sister_, he decides.

"You betcha!" she nods, the curls in her hair bouncing around her face.

"You pronounced my name correctly, too!" Mr. Valentine says with a genuine smile on his face. "Not a lot of people can do that - " he lowers his voice - "not even my _colleagues_." This incites a riot of laughter from the crowd of glamourous Capitolites. _Well, they certainly like her already_. The two banter back and forth, eyes sparkling under the light, as the interviewer asks Bash about the stunt she pulled during the Reapings. _I've never seen anyone else kiss an escort_. _Bash just eats up the spotlight, doesn't she?_ Winston grins as she owns it, starting to go off on a tangent about whichever numerous relationships she's had back in Seven.

"That's quite a lot of relationships for someone so young!" Mr. Valentine exclaims, working to quickly change the subject. "So what about your family? I'm sure you're excited to get back to them!" he addresses her. _Not with that training score, she won't_, Winston thinks, his thoughts taking a morbid turn. But Bash nods her head sagely.

"Oh yeah, Tarquinius! My dad runs a restaurant and he makes the _best_ eggs and breakfast grits you've ever had!" She's beaming now, and despite Winston making a mental note that he's going to need to have a chat with Padds, he is smiling again at her eagerness.

"I bet the food your father serves is delicious," Mr. Valentine declares, "and I'm assuming - if you're willing to indulge me, Miss Ridgewood - that it is a family owned restaurant?" The interviewer folds his hands neatly across his lap and leans forward, though getting any closer isn't necessary to hear her.

"Yep!" she affirms, and Winston sighs, leaning his head against the wall as they continue to talk. He recalls going to brunch at the Ridgewood restaurant once or twice with his friend, Tobias, and his girlfriend Bloom. _I miss that_, he thinks as he watches all of the colors and flashing halcyon lights that threaten to give him a headache. _I miss the simplicity of it all_. Nothing in the Capitol can ever be _simple_, and it's regrettably the only thing that keeps him from overindulging in the splendor around him.

The copious amounts of hairspray that the stylists teased into his hair at the behest of his escort, Lysandra, doesn't help either. His long hair has been slicked back on the sides to tame it, the dark brown color accentuated with a high shine that is sure to help make him look more refined in the eyes of the Capitolites. He's wearing a dark brown button-down shirt and shoes, with a gorgeous mint green blazer with dark brown trim and a mint green tie helping to offset the browns. _I know I look good_, Winston tells himself, trying to muster up any last bits of courage as Bash shakes the interviewer's hand and exits the stage. _And Padds isn't dressed in yellow, so we're all off to a good enough start_. He twists around and sees Padds give him a subtle thumbs-up and a wink.

"And also from District Seven, please welcome Winston Thorn, ladies and gentlemen!" shouts Mr. Valentine. Winston turns back with a light chuckle and steps out onto the stage stiffly, trying not to crease the fine leather shoes. "Good evening, Mr. Thorn!"

"Thank you, sir." Winston replies, hoping the nervousness doesn't bleed through his voice.

"So polite! Your family back home teach you those manners?" Mr. Valentine queries, a twinkle in his eyes. "We all like that in a kid, you know."

"Yes sir, they did. My mama, especially," he says quietly. The crowd seems to like his answer, a collective noise of affection rising from their ranks, like he is some adorable little kitten on stage.

"Any brothers or sisters, Mr. Thorn?" Mr. Valentine asks him, pausing to run a hand through his dyed hair, a bright iridescent red color that Winston is beginning to like.

"Just the one. Her name is Tobin, and she's about thirteen. We're pretty close, but she can be a handful at times," he admits, knowing his sister's ears must be burning in their living room at home. He flashes a smile in the general direction of the cameras as if to tell her that he's just joking, the way he would always have to if she took his lightheartedness too seriously.

"And I'm sure you care for your sibling very deeply. Do you see your sister in Miss Ridgewood, I wonder?" the Master of Ceremonies thinks aloud, stroking his chin. "I mean, I don't like to spread rumors or anything, but I've heard somewhere through the grapevine that you're in an alliance with her and some others. With you scoring a _seven_," Mr. Valentine continues, speaking over a light bout of applause, "which is quite impressive I must add… why would you ally with some of this year's lower scorers? The principle of being district partners, or perhaps because you see your sister in her?" he asks, making it sound as though Winston is only allying with Bash because he feels the need to protect her.

While part of that is true, Winston is beginning to feel defensive. "I think the scores are a bit objective," he says slowly. "Bash is a wonderful person, and I'm quite happy with my choices in allies, thank you," he retorts, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice to keep an upbeat demeanor. _There's been too much snark on this stage already_.

"Will it secure your victory, though? So you can go back to those that are important in your life?" the man sitting across from him asks. The doubt from earlier resurfaces in his gut, and before he gets the chance to open his mouth, the buzzer goes off. Mr. Valentine gives him a wry smile and stands to shake his hand. "I guess we'll find out, then."

Winston leaves the stage feeling dazed and unsure what he is supposed to do.

_Tomorrow is only so far away._

* * *

**Darnius Paisley** (**16**), **District 8 Tribute**

If there is one thing that Darnius likes about his time in the Capitol, it has been the chaos that has come with the experience. But Darnius can't help but feel a sickness spread to his stomach - like a drop of ink in a glass of water - at how _fake_ this all seems to be. Once the pair from District Seven has been separated, the line has fallen silent again. It is not a comfortable silence; rather, this silence is like the one that he and Halley have shared for the last few days, but with eight others behind him. He shrugs his shoulders, trying to roll the tension out, and hears the thunderous applause that signals the end of another interview. Winston has gotten up and headed the other way across the stage, looking at a loss for words despite a profound lack of provoking questions. _Well, that sure is one way to dampen an impression_.

Halley looks back at Darnius, the soft red glow of an exit sign reflected in her green eyes. He gives her a silent nod as Mr. Valentine calls her on stage in the same way as the others, which has become boring and customary over the past forty-five minutes of interviews. Most tributes have been winging it, and Darnius knows he will too despite hours of careful instruction from Augustus, his escort. _After the tablecloth incident, I don't think he had reason to try very hard though_. But it sits well with Darnius, as he often feels more comfortable riding on impulse rather than careful considerations. Darnius tries to focus his attention on the proceedings before him, but just like the Private Sessions, it has taken forever to inch down the line even though each interview is about three minutes long. To alleviate his boredom, he scratches the side of his nose and immediately forces himself to stop. _It's an old habit, and one Arya's been trying to break for years…_ his hand falls limp back at his side, and he tries not to focus on either the tingling sensation on the side of his nose or his girlfriend, who has already spent hours plaguing the morbid thoughts in his head.

"Welcome, Miss Verron! I must say, you look fantastic tonight," the Master of Ceremonies comments to his district partner, who smiles graciously despite her eyes betraying a certain sense of flightiness he has learned to pick up on. _She does look rather sophisticated tonight_, Darnius agrees. _A far cry from the stoic little girl in the oversized paisley dress who threw up on the trains_. They dressed Halley in a white short-sleeved floral mini-dress with a keyhole neckline and small side cut-outs, but it is the dusky pink flowers with green and teal blue leaves that help make her dress stand out from the solid colors of earlier tributes. "For someone so young, you've surely turned a lot of eyes, wouldn't you say?" Mr. Valentine continues, smiling kindly at the twelve-year-old girl.

It wouldn't have been Darnius' choice of words. Her hair is styled into a half-up twist braid knot, and the light pink blush and mauve lipstick do make her look a little older… but trying to play the appearance angle with her isn't a good idea, at least in his mind. _Besides, after having two young kids up on stage already, I'm sure the Capitol is tired of seeing them._

"Just Halley, please." his district partner tells Mr. Valentine, pointedly evading the question.

"Halley, okay. I can work with that," he comments with a grin that makes Darnius' skin crawl. He's never been a huge fan of the rich nor the haughty, and Tarquinius Valentine gives him the impression of somehow being both without the intention to be either. "Are you proud of your training score? One of the youngest tributes here, and you've got a six? That's quite the impressive feat, young lady," he praises Halley.

Halley fidgets in her chair, her cheeks burning behind the blush. "I think it has gotten enough attention, so, yes, I am." A grin lights up her face, and not for the first time, Darnius cannot help but feel jealous that she outscored him. _What did she do to get that kind of score? Slap someone else? It would be pretty funny to see her slap a Gamemaker_, he muses, the thoughts reminiscent of their first night in the Capitol.

"Did you expect I'd get a lower score?" Halley asks boldly, cocking her head to the side and looking Mr. Valentine in the eye.

The man blushes and straightens his lapels for the hundredth time that night. "No, not at all!" _Liar_. Darnius did not expect any of the younger tributes to score very high, and he recalls watching the television with Halley by his side. Neither spoke a word, just watched with eyes glued to the screen as Mr. Valentine read the cards. _And she got a six_. As if mirroring his thoughts, the Master of Ceremonies drops his voice into a theatrical whisper. "What did you _do _to earn such a score, Halley?"

"I don't think I can tell you..." Halley says, her lips tugging into a mischievous smile.

"My, my... you are a bright one," he compliments her with another winning smile. "So, tell me, Halley, what do you want to do if you win?" Mr Valentine asks, uncrossing his legs and reclining in the chair. _Which looks a great deal more comfortable than the one we get to sit in_. By now, Darnius is only half-listening to the interview, trying to mentally prepare himself for the angle he wants to take. Their escort had discussed with him the possible routes he could go. Attempting to be a tear-jerker isn't on that menu, since Darnius would much rather be distant than look miserable. _I want these people's respect, not their pity_, he decides. _I'd much rather act like that Hela girl did, at least then people might take me seriously._ Certainly, by lashing out during the Reapings, he could be plausible to play up the aggressive card. _Show them I'm competition._

"When you win," Mr. Valentine continues as Halley sits looking agitated, "you get a lot of money and get to move your whole family into one of those big Victors' Village homes. I'm sure you've seen them!" She nods slowly, the soft waves that have been delicately curled in her hair bouncing on the shoulders of her white dress.

"I want to move all my brothers and sisters in with me to the other houses," Halley replies, slowly lifting her gaze from her lap to meet the interviewer in the eyes once more.

"How many brothers and sisters do you have? Not your parents?" asks Mr. Valentine, a confused expression on his face.

"Well, there's Old Man Clyde... and Miss Lylanis, but..." she pauses, taking a deep breath, mulling over her thoughts as the timer speeds down toward zero. "No, not them. They can take care of themselves. But the others… they deserve a home after losing-"

"So they aren't your relatives, then? Halley, I'm sorry, but I'm confused." Mr. Valentine interjects, an expression of curiosity and concern on his face. But Darnius has heard enough. _Miss Lyanis is the one who runs the homeless shelter_, he thinks, his stomach sinking to his knees. Halley never mentioned Miss Lylanis before, or her story would have made sense. _And to think I made fun of her situation._ This Old Man Clyde must have been the closest thing to a father figure she had, and the thought fills Darnius with a great sorrow.

Darnius had once considered registering himself and his father for the homeless shelter when the times got tough and his father abused the bottle too much. After the brutal death of his mother, times _always_ seemed difficult. _But alcohol is cheaper than medication in Eight… and the shelter is always overflowing._

"There's nothing to be confused about," Halley shrugs nonchalantly. "If I win, we all get a _real_ home. That's all there is to it."

"Well…" the Master of Ceremonies starts, at a loss for words. "If you live on the streets, I think it's safe to assume that you're scrappy enough to have earned that six."

Halley nods solemnly. "Once, Old Man Henderson saw me get into a fight with a boy a couple years older than me… I got beat pretty badly," she recalls quietly, her voice full of a dampened sort of bigor. "I didn't quit though. He told me to learn how to defend myself until I got good enough to when I could beat the boys." She swallows thickly, the full attention of the Capitolites tuned in to hear her. "And I kept fighting, and kept losing. Until one day, I didn't."

There is a heavy silence which hangs on the crowd, and a similar one in his heart as he recalls years of battles and arguments fought with his friend, Weaver, at his side both in and out of the schoolyards. _She and I really aren't too different_, he ponders as the buzzer goes off somewhere in the silence. Halley offers a grin to the crowd, whose applause fills the gaps in the stunned silence. Mr. Valentine stands up again and faces the crowd with a signature smile. "Next, please welcome Darnius Paisley of District Eight!" he crows in a jovial tone.

Darnius' feet, enclosed in shiny black dress shoes, seem to move on their own as he makes an impulsive decision. _I'm going to treat this like a fight_, he tells himself as he walks into the dazzling lights, his suit drawing a myriad of gasps from the crowd.

_I went down swinging at the Reapings, I'll go down swinging here._

* * *

**Arley Harva** (**12**), **District 9 Tribute**

She's been feeling good about this all day, since the time the scores came out, through the interview preparations, scores of stylists, and finally now standing behind the curtains it feels like nothing can break her stride. _Not even the two that I scored_. She remembers sitting on the couch with Granger, her mentor, and Padds as Mr. Valentine appeared on screen to read off the scores. Arley expected the Careers to score high, so she was definitely shocked when the girl from One received a lower score than anyone else.

Her score, however, does not worry her. _I've got Winston, Bash, and Padds… and if we avoid the rest of the Careers, we'll be alright._ The thought of the crimson dawn that tomorrow is sure to bring makes her uneasy, as it would anyone. _Tomorrow it begins_. She may be naïve, but it would seem that the Games make anyone uneasy… except maybe the little boy from District Three. So she tries to focus on the interviews, the stadium around her filled with hundreds of people instead, and she loves it. Arley loves the suit that Darnius wears, too. The black suit is a chaotic mess of different swatches of color, ranging from dark and light browns, light beige, red, and both gold and matte yellow. Beneath the blazer, Darnius is wearing a charcoal shirt, black tie, and black dress shoes, but it is the color on his suit that draws the attention from both her and the Capitolites upon walking out into the light.

"Good evening, Mr. Paisley. How are you?" Mr. Valentine asks once the older boy is seated. The boy, Darnius, has a smile that seems to waver between aggression and sunshine, and it takes him a solid couple of seconds longer than it should to respond.

"I'm fine," he replies, flattening his hair with his hand.

The Master of Ceremonies sighs. "None of these tributes have any manners," he says with a feigned sort of misery. "You're supposed to say '_I'm fine, thank you_,' but I suppose it's too much to ask you all."

Arley narrows her eyes in mild confusion. _Why does he care all the sudden?_ She might attribute it to burnout; after fifteen prior interviews, Mr. Valentine must be getting tired of keeping up such a smiling facade.

"Okay," Darnius nods his head. _I wouldn't know how to handle that either_, Arley thinks. She turns backward to look at Padds, who shrugs nonchalantly as if this whole thing is no big deal to him.

"He shouldn't lay into you like that, Arley," Padds whispers to her, and she bobs her head in affirmation, the copper crown slipping slightly on her head. She reaches back up to balance it atop her brown hair, which has been styled into soft ruffled waves. If they hadn't been standing there as long as they had - almost an _hour_ \- then Arley is sure the crown would be more comfortable. _And the heels hurt too!_ she moans internally, wishing she could be barefoot like she was back home or inside the training apartments.

Something tells her that the interview with the District Eight boy isn't going too well, as he has raised his voice, half-shouting something at the interviewer. "What a heathen thing to do," Mr. Valentine tells him, and Arley can't help but agree with Darnius when he begins to shout at the man.

"Our escort said the same thing when I wiped my mouth on the tablecloth in the dining car," Darnius tells the man, who looks appalled. "Do you know him?"

"Mr. Paisley, I can cut this interview short and-" Mr. Valentine begins before he is rudely cut off. Arley stops paying attention momentarily to crouch down in order to take off her heels. She leans against the wall for support as she does, but Padds offers her his support as well, and she is finally able to get them off.

"So much better!" Arley declares, standing up straight again and once more readjusting the crown. A strand of her hair has clung to her faded berry red lipstick, and she pulls it off in annoyance. Her feet are covered in claret red ribbons which extend about halfway up her calves, disappearing into the dress, but they are much more comfortable than the shoes, which she kicks to the side. _The ribbons remind me of Sissa_, she thinks sadly, remembering her big sister weaving them into her hair the day of the Reapings.

"You've known for me two days yet you think you know everything about me? You're intolerant, just like my father," Darnius says with a condescending sneer that quickly shocks the crowd. _Why is he trying to be so aggressive? _"And he's a drunk," Darnius continues. "Are you a drunk, Mr. Valentine?"

The interviewer looks affronted, and beyond the stage there is an uneasy quiet settling in among the Capitolites. "I don't think it's very fair that you-" he tried to defend himself before Darnius cuts him off.

"It isn't too hard to be able to smell the alcohol on your breath," Darnius says, taking an exaggerated whiff as the other man's slush-colored eyes widen. "Most definitely," he continues. "Smells like vodka to me!"

Arley giggles as the man's normally perfect complexion takes on a pink tinge of embarrassment. He stands up hastily, looking flustered, and presses a small concealed button on his armchair. The buzzer sounds from everywhere and nowhere all at once, and no one claps for the boy. Darnius looks dazed for a split second, then stands up and walks off the stage, not bothering to shake Mr. Valentine's formally outstretched hand.

"P-Please welcome, our next guest: Arley Harva! Give District Nine a warm welcome!" he instructs the audience, and they oblige. She feels like a queen as she walks out on stage to all of the clapping. The stage is cold against her feet, but the crown gleams atop her head, sending the Capitolites in a frenzy which makes her blush rather hard. She does a little twirl like that the girl from One did, and although her dress doesn't have as much motion to it, it still makes an impression. Arley is wearing a white long-sleeved blouse with a pale gold sleeveless dress over it that shimmers in the light. It has claret red side panels, embroidered red lines, and small gold pieces and diamonds at the bodice.

Mr. Valentine seems calmed by the audience response as well, and shakes her hand before gesturing graciously for her to sit down. "My, you look stunning tonight, Miss Harva!" he exclaims. "Although I must ask, what prompted your stylists to have you walk out barefoot?" He gestures toward the ribbons on her feet.

"Oh, the heels were starting to pinch my feet, so I had to take them off," she says, smiling innocently.

"Ah," he says with a grin. "Might I ask; what is your favorite part about this temporary life in the Capitol?" Mr. Valentine asks.

"The… The popcorn," she decides. "It's much saltier than what we can make at home, and it's really good," Arley defends her answer.

A roar of laughter comes from the crowd, and Mr. Valentine smiles weakly. "Ah well, our popcorn is pretty good. I don't think any of us were expecting that answer, with you coming from District Nine!" he laughs good-naturedly and wipes the corner of his eye, although Arley didn't see any tears.

"Well... the popcorn here is good..." Arley says, feeling a bit like her queenly demeanor has been reduced by one childish answer.

"It's okay, sweetheart; I'm not criticizing you," he says kindly. "Let's move away from popcorn." She nods, feeling the weight of the crown slip a little on her head. "You seem like a sweet little girl."

Now she's beaming again. "Thank you, Mr. Valentine!"

"And brave… that was your sister, wasn't it? At the Reapings?" She nods slowly to not upset the crown from its resting position. _Copper was always good at playing Queen. But now it's your turn, so you can't let her see it fall off your head_, Arley berates herself. "You volunteered for her?"

"I- I did..." Arley says, trailing off as she remembers the fear that had spiked a hole inside of her, the horror on her sister's face as she raised her hand and called out the two words that almost always guaranteed a death sentence in District Nine. _I volunteer_.

"Do you have any idea how brave it is, for what you did? She did come to say goodbye, right?"

"Of course she did," Arley says, feeling a bit confused. "Are you trying to say she wouldn't?"

He shakes his head, his bright red pompadour somehow not moving with the motion. "No, not at all, sweetheart. 'Why did you volunteer for her though, if you don't mind me asking? I've talked to a lot of people on this stage tonight and I don't think that many people as brilliant as you would've done what you did."

Arley feels dumbfounded, grasping for words for a moment as the timer counts down on her. "I couldn't let her come here." Silence. "I didn't know what 'here' was, but it- it wasn't gonna be good, and she can't go."

"And why's that, Miss Harva? Why couldn't she come here to compete for the Hunger Games?" Mr. Valentine asks her politely, though there is a look of sorrow and pity behind shielded eyes.

"Because those that come here don't usually come back. And I don't know if she could come back. But I might." Arley sniffles, using the back of her hand to wipe tears off her face.

Mr. Valentine reaches out to take one of her hands, enveloping it on his own. She can see that the timer has reached zero, but the buzzer has not gone off. "Is there anything you want to say before you go, Miss Harva?"

"Yes there is something I'd like to say before I go," she whispers, trying hard not to cry.

"I love you, Sissa. Be brave for me."

* * *

**Ruben Bolt** (**18**), **District 10 Tribute**

If there is one place Ruben doesn't want to be, it is here. He'd much rather be running a fighting ring back in Ten, or stuck in a launch tube ready to go - hell, he'd rather be in the _arena_ \- rather than this. _Most of all, I'd much rather be kissing Gray_. Mr. Valentine's questions about all these relationships has begun to make his heart jealous. Ruben is already irrationally mad at the likes of Siren for being accepted into the Pack despite a score lower than his own; no one ever came to him with an offer. But highlighting that there are blossoming romances within the Careers doesn't help. _As if that group needed any more reasons to be favored by the whole damn Capitol. _

And then there was the matter of the pair from District Five. He didn't care enough to listen - considering both look like bloodbath material to him - but however their relationship came into fruition, Ruben is jealous of them because he has been forced to leave his love behind him in District Ten, and they have theirs here.

It's the chain bracelet around his wrist that helps ground him, to give him something to fight for. He still remembers when Gray gave it to him, linking the twisted industrial fence to form a clasp. Coming from the small urban sector of the district that dealt with meat packaging, there was plenty of fence to go around and not enough Peacekeepers to care.

_Plenty of crime, too_. He can't imagine living in Eleven, where the Peacekeepers congregate and crack down hard upon its denizens. Despite how much he hates it, District Ten is home, and with it is love and security.

He tries to burn thoughts of his boyfriend, Gray, out of his head by thinking ahead. _About what I'll need to do to get back to him so we can finally get married like we have been planning_. Ruben knows what needs to be done tomorrow morning, when the tubes lift them into whatever the arena holds. _I know I have to kill. How different can it be?_

"Well, Mr. Padderson, you look like you've seen a ghost. Aren't you enjoying the Capitol experience thus far?" asks Mr. Valentine, flashing his pearly whites.

Both the Nine boy and Evie are dressed in purple, but that's where the similarity of their outfits stops. Padds has on a purplish-gray blazer over a black sweater, with a white shirt collar sticking out from underneath. He has on charcoal slacks with lighter gray pinstripes that are reminiscent of about half of the patrons to the underground ring he and his boss run, coupled with sky blue socks, tan desert boots, and a golden-yellow and white-patterned fringed scarf with one end being dip-dyed sky blue. At first, the color scheme seems off to Ruben, who is itching to make a jest about it to Evie. However, the longer he looks, the better he realizes how well it suits Padds' tanned skin, and so he keeps the barb to himself.

"Oh, uh, sorry. No, just... just reminded of the Reaping, that's all." Padds says, fiddling with the scarf. _He must be burning up in that thing_, Ruben thinks. His own outfit is nice and simple, as the stylists chose to spend more time on Evie, which was more than fine by him. A black tuxedo, white dress shirt, and red tie make him one of the most simply-dressed tributes. But Ruben has no doubt that the chain bracelet and a well-placed scowl on his face will work wonders with the crowd, _especially_ having as high of a training score as he earned. _Funny how they dress us all up so nice right beforehand… like the stockyard before they send us to the slaughterhouse_.

The Master of Ceremonies has said something to the other boy, but Ruben only catches his response. "All of the faces out there, waiting for me to trip up or something, you know?"

"Well, Mr. Padderson, you never struck me as shy before. I will say, we aren't like that here, I promise you. So kick back and enjoy yourself, like Miss Harva did. One last night before the Games tomorrow, so it'd be best to have fun with it, don't you think?"

The scowl creeps onto Ruben's face. "You just watch us all die, instead. That's _so_ much nicer," he mutters to himself, not quite realizing he was speaking aloud.

"What was that, Ruben?" Evie asks him with a sweetness that seems feigned. She has her back against the wall now, with the stage light illuminating one half of her face and casting an Evie-shaped shadow across the floor.

"Nothing, Evie," he tells her with a scoff, brushing his hair out of his eyes. The stylists trimmed it up so that it wouldn't bother him, but he has no doubt it'll grow just long enough in the arena to irritate him. "You gonna go off the handle this time?" Ruben taunts her, the bathroom incident still fresh in the back of his mind.

"No," she shrugs, picking at one of the lacy sleeves on her dress. "Unless you want me to," Evie says calmly, her lips pressed together for a long moment. Neither of them speak until she decides to break the silence. "You think he needs a good punch in the face?"

"No, but I'll hit him for you if you want," Ruben snorts. "For old times sake." She flashes a grin in his direction, shaking in a silent laughter that would make her look unhinged if she were mad. Ruben bites the inside of his lip, glad he didn't choose to ally with her despite any similarities they may share. _Don't wanna piss her off and get a knife in my back from some psychotic episode or something_.

The conversation has gotten easier on the stage, with the Nine boy back to his normal, extroverted self. The whole thing only proves to Ruben how stupid this is. _All this anticipation, trying to make a good impression on a bunch of useless pricks. _He sighs. _It'd be so much easier to _show _them what I know I'm capable of_, he thinks darkly.

"I'm definitely hitting him," Evie groans, shaking her head so that her white hair falls in messy curls in front of her face. She sighs and uses her fingers to groom it back into place. Tonight, she looks like anyone might expect a fifteen-year-old girl to look. _Less fucking feral_, Ruben grins. Despite the unspoken agreement to go their own separate ways, the pair have been more than cordial in their time in the Capitol.

"Just look at his _smirk_. And everyone looks so uncomfortable to be on that stage with him."

"You're gonna be wasting your energy," Ruben remarks. "They don't deserve any of us. Any of _this_."

"Says the criminal." Evie says snidely, puckering her lips in his general direction.

His grin is predatory as he looks back at her, a dangerous look in his eye. _Don't fuck with me. _"Says the girl who broke a sink," he retorts.

"Touché, Ruben, touché," she says, stepping off from the wall to face the crowd.

"Speak of the devil," Ruben growls, his voice gravelly as the buzzer goes off, sounding like some demented alarm clock. Evie groans, making an animalistic noise at the back of her throat.

She stands alert at the exit from the dark hall that the tributes are being kept in. Ruben walks up further against the wall to fill her absence, resting his shoulder against the gray brick. "Everyone please welcome Evanna Lynn of District Ten!" Mr. Valentine shouts.

He watches her walk to greet the interviewer. Her floor length dress is the same shade of purple that matches her eyes, with a sweetheart neckline and long floral rose-patterned sleeves. The roses are a lighter purple, matching her platform wedges. _How does anyone even walk in stuff like that around here?_ Ruben wonders, silently agreeing with the Nine girl that heels would be too annoying to wear.

"Your eyes are a magnificent color," Mr. Valentine compliments her, as if he heard their conversation from behind the curtains. _As if he's trying to make amends_.

"You- you really think so?" Evie asks him sweetly. _She puts up such a front, and here she's gonna melt like butter… I won't be that easy for Valentine to interview, _Ruben tells himself. He closes his eyes and listens to the interview, trying to block out the lights and the hundreds of faces filling the stadium. _Much more people than we had to fill in the Reaping square_.

"I have to say, Miss Lynn-"

"Evie. I go by Evie," she interjects rather rudely, bringing any calming feelings to a halt. Ruben smirks in delight, imagining the look that must be on the interviewer's face.

"Alright, _Evie_. There was some talk that you had an incident in the training center a few days ago. Do you care to tell us about it?" Mr. Valentine asks.

Ruben can hear his district partner sigh. "I had an accident. Nothing more," she lies. _But I know the truth. Good of her to not give Valentine what he wants._

But of course, he's persistent. _After all, this is all one big drama show, isn't it? _"We were told it involved blood and someone being stitched up," he inquires.

"I slipped into the sink in the bathroom," Evie continues to fabricate the story. "A trainer came in and got cut on the broken shards." Ruben is grinning now, and opens his eyes to see the dismayed reaction of Mr. Valentine's face. _She's learning how to play the game. _

_Too bad it won't save her from death._

* * *

**Tangaria Roolch** (**17**), **District 11 Tribute**

_He's violent and evil, _Tangaria thinks to herself as she watches Ruben stroll out onto the stage to applause of the same degree that the Careers received. _Well, he did get an eight_, she muses. _Much more impressive than we got_. Both she and Reynolds had gotten a training score of four, and Mari somehow pulled off a five. It makes Tangaria sick to remember the glee on Asher's face when he earned a _seven_, nor how impressed their mentor was with him.

But Tangaria hasn't - and won't - give up. _I have a whole family to return to, and we sure as hell could use a nicer house_. Ten people crammed into a small, decrepit house on the outskirts of Eleven isn't a life Tangaria wants to live anymore, now that she's seen the extraordinary wonders of the Capitol and all of its richness and affluence. _It's not a life I want my sisters to live either. Or little Gravnu_. Most of her brothers are older than her seventeen years, but Gravnu is the youngest of her brothers. _Would he remember me if I don't come back?_ She shakes her head clear of the morbid thoughts, touching the silky dark sage green fabric of her sister Talitha's scarf. The stylists wrapped it around her head, with most of her coarse dark hair flowing free of its customary braid.

"You okay, Tangaria?" Mariela half-whispers from behind Asher in line, face peering around his shoulder.

Tangaria steps awkwardly off the wall to see Mariela better. _Having Asher with the rest of us is a bit strange, _she admits, having grown used to him being away with the rest of the Careers. Whatever they're off doing, she'll never know, but she sincerely hopes that the Wolfchild leaves her alone in the arena. _I don't want to deal with him_, she thinks. Somehow, an enemy you know is worse than an enemy you don't.

"Doesn't he give you the creeps?" Tangaria asks her allies, nodding her head in Ruben's general direction.

"He gives me the creeps…" Reynolds says softly from the very back of the line, who looks like he's one with the shadows, his dark brown hair and charcoal suit blending into the back end of the adjoining hall.

"Hey, give me some damn space, guys," Asher grimaces, sidestepping Tangaria to move to the front of the line. Asher's black combat boots echo in the small waiting hall, momentarily drowning out the noise emanating from outside.

"So, Ruben," she hears Mr. Valentine continue once Asher has settled with his back against the wall so he can keep an eye on the three of them. "You scored decently well, wouldn't you say?"

"I could've scored higher, let's just say that." Ruben replies, his voice taking on an equally dark and boisterous tone.

"Ugh, what an _idiot_." Mariela scoffs, folding her arms across the front of her dress.

"I could take him..." Asher says quietly from the wall, his usual cocky demeanor radiating off of him. Tangaria ignores him. _Just another pissed-off boy. He needs to get in line, there's at least three of them in front of him_. Tangaria adjusts the strap of her dress, as the golden clasp that keeps it on her shoulder feels a bit loose. It's a one-shoulder dusky pink tunic dress with gold and silver filigree flowers sewn between each tiered layer. She wears gold gladiator sandals on her feet, as well as a simple gold necklace, earrings, bracelets, and an emerald ring that compliments her dark green scarf.

"I hint a bit of anger in your voice, Ruben. Why's that?" Mr. Valentine asks him with a small shrugging gesture.

"I scored just as good as _Siren_ did, and she's part of the fucking Career pack. Crescentia got a _one_, yet she's still one of them." He pauses, shaking his head as if the idea is one of pure lunacy. "'Where's my damn invite offer?" Ruben asks loudly, as if in hopes the Careers will come out and kiss his feet. She opens her mouth and closes it in disbelief, the russet red lipstick sticking her lips together.

For once, she and Asher are in agreement. "No goddamn way," her district partner remarks, shaking his head. The four of them are quiet, listening to the remainder of his interview. It's a weird sort of silence, as despite initially feeling uncomfortable having the Wolfchild in their midst, she now feels rather comfortable. _Like we're united against a common enemy, at least for a moment_. But Tangaria is smart enough to know that Asher wouldn't be part of the Careers if he weren't lethal enough.

"With that attitude, Ruben, _no one_ will want to be in an alliance with you," the Master of Ceremonies snaps. _He's losing his patience again, _she notes. "Do you have any allies, Ruben?" he asks, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"No, I won't need them," Ruben snarls. "In an arena full of prey, I'm going to be the apex predator." Asher whistles in disbelief as the buzzer rings out, signalling the end of his interview. Ruben stands up again, taller than Mr. Valentine by several inches, and refuses to shake his hand a second time. There is some lackluster clapping from the audience, but the majority of them appear to be in shock. The interviews have quickly gone downhill, and Tangaria almost does not want to leave the safety behind the curtain.

Mr. Valentine straightens his sugar pink lapels and looks in Tangaria's direction. "Alright everyone, we've got a few more spectacular tributes to introduce, give a round of applause for the lovely Tangaria Roolch of District Eleven!" he shouts, beckoning her forward. She walks as fast as she can, hoping that none of the Capitolites take notice of her slight limp.

He shakes her hand firmly, and takes a seat. "I can tell _just_ by looking at you that you have such a sweet soul, Miss Roolch. Would you agree with that statement?" He queries, a winning smile back on his face. _It would seem that these moody boys are taking his confidence away_, she thinks, ruefully wondering how the interviewer will hold up with Asher Foster on stage.

"I- thank you," Tangaria replies, still caught a little off-guard. "It wouldn't be too cocky of me to agree?"

"No it wouldn't, young lady. It's a good strength to know where your assets lie. You strike me as kind-hearted and determined to get home to that sweet little sister you volunteered for."

"I do get that a lot… Habal likes to joke that I'm as sweet as a tangerine," Tangaria grins. "My older brother," she clarifies. "My sister… it was her very first Reaping, and I couldn't bear to see her be put through all of this. I figured I might have a better shot than she would, and maybe I could come home for my family," Tangaria says wistfully, doggedly forcing herself not to cry so that her black eyeliner doesn't streak. "I couldn't let her die, Mr. Valentine."

This earns a collective noise of sympathy from the crowd, and a few cheers too. _Hopefully sponsors can look past my limp and realize that I can do this._

"I know you couldn't, darling," Mr. Valentine says gently, as if she is some twelve-year-old that needs consolation from an adult. "But what I've been meaning to ask… has your heart and kindness granted you any allies, Miss Roolch?" He sits straight up in his chair, crossing his legs to recline in a more comfortable position. _If I thought standing through the other twenty interviews was taxing, he's been sitting in the same position, and these chairs aren't very comfortable._

"Yes," Tangaria says. "District Twelve. Reynolds and Mariela," she tells him preemptively before he can open his mouth.

"Not your own district partner?" he asks, looking a little surprised despite some of the other Careers alluding to Asher being a part of their alliance.

She shakes her head, her dark green scarf keeping her hair from whipping about her face. "No. Asher ditched me ever since the train rides, Mr. Valentine. He's found other allies, and so have I."

The interviewer nods wisely. "I understand. But apart from any melodrama you've had, I trust you've had an enjoyable stay in the Capitol?"

Tangaria replies after a brief moment of consideration. "Yes, all things considered it's a much nicer change than the poverty we experience in District Eleven." She gives him a wan smile. "Having seven other siblings under the same roof doesn't quite equate to wearing amazing dresses like this one every day," Tangaria admits. _If I could stay in those apartments forever, I would. _The sheer amount of luxury that she and her fellow tributes have encountered since their arrival in the Capitol has been nothing short of both overwhelming and enjoyable.

Mr. Valentine nods. "Well, that's quite a delight to hear. So tell me, Miss Roolch, are you nervous for tomorrow? In less than twenty-four hours, you will be in the arena. How does that make you feel?"

_Nervous. Scared. On edge. Worried. Tense. _The words come unbidden to her mind, and she fights them away like they are the ghosts of negative rainclouds putting a damper on the afternoon sun. "I'm ready, Mr. Valentine," she says simply.

Tangaria is not ready to deal with the macabre series of death that is resting on the brink of the horizon. But she is ready to survive, to tough it out and make sure that she can weather whatever storms the Games are going to throw her way.

The buzzer goes off, and she stands, feeling numb. _Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. _The words seem to ring in her ears as she shakes his hand and curtsies politely for the crowd, a move that their wizened escort had drilled into her head the afternoon spent preparing. _I'm ready, I'm ready, I'm ready._

And so her mantra begins, and with it, a sense of self assurance that she had not felt before tonight.

But Tangaria Roolch knows that any sense of hope is a false one. _Not everything is going to be okay._

* * *

**Reynolds Pelliarch** (**16**), **District 12 Tribute**

"You don't like you're very happy to be here." Mr. Valentine remarks, surveying not Reynolds Pelliarch, but the boy who is sitting across from him on stage. Asher does look pissed-off, with a glowering expression on his face. "Would you mind explaining to me why that is?"

"Take a wild guess," Asher replies scathingly.

_Asher's outfit is quite admirable_, Reynolds thinks. The latter districts usually get the short end of the stick when it comes to stylists and sponsors, but he has no doubt that the reason the stylists dressed Asher in such a fitting outfit was because of both his inclusion into the Career Pack, as well as the _seven_ he scored during the private demonstrations. _Much more impressive than my allies or I could pull off_, Reynolds thinks glumly as the interview moves along.

Asher is wearing an unbuttoned brown jacket with a standing collar and slitted sleeves, showing off a tight black V-neck shirt - that helps to show off the lean muscles he has - and a light brown leather cummerbund around his waist. His pants match the jacket, with woven earth-toned accents of dark brown, black, gray, burnt umber, lichen green, and bone white that look jagged and wispy at some angles, as if he has been a lone survivalist in the wilderness beyond Panem for years. The loud combat boots on his feet are made of black leather, with thick straps; however, the most impressive detail the stylists included was the wolf fur accents. On Asher's hands are fingerless gloves with tan leather backing at the palm areas and cropped wolf fur on the top of the hand, and he wears a thick wolf fur pelisse with flaxen straps over his left shoulder.

Though the only wolf that Reynolds ever saw back in District Twelve was already dead, the one in front of him looks very much alive and ready to tear his head off. It had a gray pelt, whereas the fur pelisse Asher wears is a mixture of grays, browns, and burnt oranges that give it an underlying red hue that matches Asher's wild and unruly hair very nicely. _Maybe they have different kinds of creatures roaming the wilderness in Eleven_, Reynolds muses.

"And how did you acquire such a name like that?" Mr. Valentine asks of the Wolfchild.

"It's a name I have back home. I know when to not have my buttons pushed, and those white dogs almost did it." Asher growls, examining his fingernails as if the interview is boring him to death.

"White dogs?" Mariela questions, the two words hanging empty and unanswered in the air. But Reynolds agrees with him. _White dogs is an appropriate name… it was dogs and not men who killed everyone I knew and loved._

"White dogs, Asher?" Mr. Valentine mirrors the question, arching an eyebrow in discontent with what the boy is saying.

"Yeah, Peacekeepers. The ones who don't keep the 'peace,'" Asher replies mockingly.

The Master of Ceremonies sighs exasperatedly. "Well, Mr. Foster, I think that-" he begins before getting rudely cut off.

"Tarquinius, _please_." Asher says, holding up a hand to silence the interviewer. Reynolds raises his eyebrows at the blatant disrespect, wondering if Asher is truly that arrogant or if it's all some grand facade he has been presenting. "I know my time is ending, so let me leave you with this. You all keep telling me that I'm a _tribute_, which I think is funny." He cackles to illustrate the point, a high laugh that sends chills down Reynolds' spine. "I _volunteered_ for this," Asher continues. "You didn't reap me! But now it's the Wolfchild's turn to reap. You all best watch out."

Asher glares at the interviewer before standing up and adjusting the flaxen straps of his military-style pelisse. His dangerous gaze sweeps across the Capitol patrons that fill in the darkened stadium, as if to warn them from some cruel fate he has planned. Asher then stalks off the stage before the buzzer has sounded.

"Alright," Mr. Valentine says, clapping his hands together. _You can tell he's trying to be positive_, Reynolds thinks. _A bit hard to do when everything seems like a disaster_. It's a feeling he has grown accustomed to, and Reynolds can feel that sorrow gnaw at the walls of his stomach as if demanding he find something, anything, to numb the pain.

Somewhere from in front of the curtain, he can hear as Mr. Valentine calls out Mariela's name, and he feels her presence shift away from him; her olive Seam skin highlighted with a pearly sheen. "Bye, Reynolds…" He can feel himself shut the world away as his body goes on lockdown, his eyes glazing over so that the lights seem less bright and harsh. _This isn't it. You're fine_, he tells himself through a haze of darkness, the lights seeming to slip away as he takes a backwards step further down the hallway.

Tangaria's voice seems to speak to him then, a quick and quiet murmuring in his ear that rings through his skull like the clangor of some great brass gong, and she has a single word for him to hear.

_Breathe_.

Instead he hits his fist against the plain gray bricks. Lightly at first, then running his bony fingers through the mop of dark brown hair at the top of his head. _Fucking useless, Reynolds! _He grits his teeth and slams his fist against the wall harder, feeling his skin break against the rough surface. _Can't leave you alone for two damn seconds, _Reynolds thinks, blinking back angry tears. He pulls his fist back, feeling his skin throb. Reynolds leans his back against the wall before sliding down it so that he is sitting hunched on the floor behind the curtain.

_Breathe_.

Reynolds opens his eyes and blinks, watching Mari speak animatedly to the interviewer. She's wearing a gorgeous white sleeveless tulle gown with black studs and thin metal beads - that look almost like specks of coal - embellishing the illusion neckline and bodice, and then dispersing all over the skirt's moth-eaten layers. Her hair is left loose but the curly strands are adorned with white and silver lace rose hair pins with pearls at the centers. And he can hear Mari having her interview on stage, the perfect lady even with her Seam background. Mr. Valentine seems smitten with how poised and mature Mari and her damn plum lipstick appear to be despite her age. _How she looks prim and proper and amazing_, Reynolds thinks sullenly.

"The dress you wore for your reaping was gorgeous, too. How did you get something that nice?" the Master of Ceremonies asks her. "I mean, apologies, but normally the clothes we see from District Twelve aren't as... bright and clean. I almost thought you were one of the mayor's children."

"Oh!" Mari laughs, covering her mouth with a manicured hand as she does so. "Mayor Iparis' children are rather close to us… his eldest son and my sister are engaged!" She announces with a smile, making the crowd swoon.

Somehow, after several days of talking about her close relationships, the fact that her pregnant sister, June, was married to one of the mayor's sons never came up. _Mayor Iparis_… The name is as foul in Reynolds' mind as the thoughts of the Peacekeepers who lined his family up and executed them. _One by one by one_. _And he didn't fucking do anything_ _to try and help them_. Anger stirs in his chest, and he struggles to contain it, like putting a lid on top of a boiling pot of water.

_Breathe_.

"I've learned to get back up, over and over again." Mari says. "Life is hard; it should be. But I'll keep getting up, bruises and all." Her voice grows louder, and when Reynolds opens his eyes again, she has shifted in her seat to look directly at him.

But her tone isn't accusatory. _It's invigorating_. '_Get up_,' she seems to say to him. And so he does.

_Breathe_, Tangaria whispers in his ear.

This time, Reynolds follows along. A steady inhale. A steady exhale. Reynolds begins to ground himself again, and he gets back up, steadying himself against the rough brick wall. One of his scars has split open again from the exertion, but he ignores it. _I don't need this pain anymore_.

One buzzer ends, and another begins. Reynolds is the very last tribute to leave the hallway behind, and with the desertion of his post, he leaves behind the thorns of negativity that have been plucked from his sides. He drops the charcoal blazer and kicks it into the corner where the Nine girl, Arley, left her red heels. _It's baggage._ _And I want them to see _me. He walks stiffly onto the stage to a mild round of applause, dressed in a gray undershirt and crisply ironed charcoal slacks. The black shoes on his feet make no noise as he pads silently toward his chair, and Reynolds can feel the weight of his tie - a bone white color - swinging as he takes a seat.

"I know this must be a hot question for you, Reynolds," Mr. Valentine begins, folding his hands on his lap, "but why did you volunteer? I can't say that District Twelve has ever really seen a volunteer, at least to my existing knowledge."

Reynolds stares at the man's hands for a moment, fixated on the glinting rubies that are set into one of his rings, the other two being simple silver bands. It takes a moment to formulate what he's going to say, but he gets there, managing to get his words out. "I felt it was worth it, to save someone's life, y'know?"

Mr. Valentine's brow furrows in confusion. "But why, Reynolds?" he asks, voice laced with concern.

"I wanted to give up... it's why I volunteered. I was ready to die," Reynolds answers bluntly, leaving a shocked expression on Mr. Valentine's face.

"Yeah, I was," he says, as if challenging the audience to disprove him. "I tried jumping off the roof of the training center," Reynolds admits, blinking back a tear. _I told myself I'm leaving this behind_. _Better to get it all out now while I can_.

"You tried, or you did? Two vastly different things there, Reynolds," Mr. Valentine says gently.

"I tried. I wanted it so badly. But Mariela and Tangaria stopped me." Reynolds lifts his chin in defiance, the lights blazing bright in his eyes. "I couldn't lie to them, they knew what I was doing." It feels almost empowering to admit it, as if the ghosts of his past can be released. Reynolds has finally begun to expunge his demons in favor of a clean slate.

Mr. Valentine looks at a loss for words again, but behind his eyes Reynolds can tell that this is upsetting him. "It wouldn't have worked, had you fallen all the way. There's a force field to stop people from doing it."

"Tangaria told me the same thing." Reynolds says. "I found someone to live for. I found _something_ to live for, a thing to finally breathe life back into my veins. I was going to give up… I was going to jump off the pedestal tomorrow morning and put an end to the madness… but now?" He asks without answer, the entire stadium silent for one last time.

"Now I'm all in, and I'm not messing around."

Mr. Valentine stands, and instead of shaking his hand, he takes Reynolds into an embrace, wrapping the boy within his arms.

"May the odds be ever in your favor," Mr. Valentine tells him with a melancholy whisper. But now, Reynolds is ready to turn those eight words into a reality.

The buzzer goes off for the last time, and it has a cold finality to it. But Reynolds, too, is on top of the world, for he has finally begun to heal.

* * *

**Author's Note****: *another long internal scream***

**There you have the remainder of the interviews! Only took me another whole month to finish, just about. Ugh. Major thanks to Paradigm for his help with some ****of the dialogue and ShunKazamis-Girl for the interview outfits and edits. Anyway, we have three tributes left to cover for the final moments - Padds, Asher and Halley - as well as a check-in with some of the supporting cast before we get to the arena!**

**Sponsoring will be open until I post the Final Moments chapter, which I am aiming to do within the week. Getting close now, guys! There are three things that you can do for some extra last minute sponsoring for your tributes.**

**1) Worth 25 pts: In your review of the chapter, which of the twenty-four interview outfits that were showcased over the last two chapters was your favorite?**

**2) Worth 25 pts: In the same review, if you could pick one interview outfit that YOU would choose to wear, which would it be? Better descriptions are on the DitR blog, the link for which is still on my profile!**

**3) A poll for Final 8 Predictions has also been posted on my profile. Participation can be confirmed through review or an existing PM thread (or even through Discord), I'm flexible. Participating in the poll will earn your tributes a knife, which is important for both defense and survival purposes. Make sure to read the sponsoring information on my profile for clarity.**

**As always, have a great day/night guys!**


	19. Chapter 19: Waiting on Edge

_Lord, I live to entertain_

_All my pride is in my praise_

_I hum along with this vibration_

_And hope to God I make it_

-Badflower, the Jester

* * *

**CHAPTER 19**

**WAITING ON EDGE**

* * *

**Filip 'Padds' Padderson** (**17**), **District 9 Tribute**

* * *

"That went worse than expected," Winston laments, wetting a comb in the bathroom sink. Padds rests his shoulder on the door frame, watching the other boy as he runs the comb through his hair, trying to get all of the hairspray out. Behind them, Sebastiana and Arley are chatting on the couch; all four still dressed in their interview outfits.

"Yeah," Padds agrees with Winston, taking a deep breath and exhaling to steady himself. He is acutely aware of the doorframe digging into the small of his back, but makes no move to shift positions. Padds watches quietly as Winston combs all of the hairspray out, using a towel to dry his hair. It didn't hit him until tonight just how good-looking his ally is, but neither the hairspray nor Winston's girlfriend back home give Padds any hints of romance. _Not that I need one… but it would be nice to live it up while I'm alive_, he muses. He and his friend Varia would occasionally fool around back at home, but that was the extent of any relationships Padds has had. Padds twists her silver bracelet around his wrist, thinking wistfully of seventeen years spent back at home, even despite its pitfalls and shortcomings.

Winston's hair still looks rather stiff in some places, but by now the other boy has completely given up. His mint green shoulders are covered in hundreds of little water droplets. "I didn't like the way they were all staring at me, you know?" Padds admits. "It's like they're all just watching us and waiting to see us mess up so they can laugh about our misfortunes. But hey, whatever. They're just Capitolites," he continues nonchalantly, trying to not let the thought of arena cameras monitoring his every move get burrowed under his skin.

It's a feeling Padds has hated since he was a little boy, when his parents watched like hawks over his shoulder for any error. _Anything at all, it was always critique after critique_… nothing ever seemed good enough for the Padderson matriarch and her husband. It was never a rewarding feeling to be shunted aside for his younger siblings. _Sure… Challah and Kieran are smarter than me, but don't I deserve the same amount of love?_ Padds thinks frustratedly, clenching his hands into fists and then flexing his fingers outward. Instead of worrying, he laughs. _We may not get many opportunities to laugh in the coming days_, Padds reminds himself, ignoring the confused look Winston sends his way. It's much easier to brush things off, something that rings true for the embarrassment Padds felt initially during his interview.

Winston shifts to the side of the sink and Padds takes a step towards the gorgeous white sink, marbled veins running through its glassy smooth surface. The sink has two basins, both made of stainless steel that has been manufactured with a shiny golden hue. The color reminds him of the vast expanses of grains that stretched for miles in every direction outside the town center. _The grains that mom and dad helped engineer_, he remembers. But even that was not enough to save him from the luck of the draw; a single slip of paper fished out of a glass bowl has landed him in this predicament. _There's only so long I can shrug it all off and say I'm fine with it._ Padds sluices cold water over his face, wiping a thin sheen of sweat from his forehead. Padds is careful not to get his copper-colored hair too wet, as he quite likes the tousled look the District Nine stylists achieved with a little sea salt spray and pomade.

"So what do you want to do about tomorrow?" he asks Winston while turning off the faucet.

There is a pause as Winston dries his broad hands on the damp towel he used to dry off his hair. "Alright, I've got nothing," Winston says. "What do _you _think we should do?"

"I'll bite," Padds grins. _God, it feels good to smile_. "Well for one, if we start to overthink tomorrow, then it's gonna turn out really horrible," Padds says. _Do first, ask questions never_, he thinks wryly. It's a motto that has caused him plenty of issues in his life, but impulse control is something Padds has always struggled with. _Why waste time thinking when you can just do it?_ "I say we get in there and grab supplies as fast as possible, then get the hell out before the Careers can catch us," he decides.

Winston suddenly looks tired, and begins to voice an objection. "What if the Careers-"

"If the Careers catch you, just scream as loud as you can and hope they fall over in fright," Padds jokes, trying to lighten the mood. "Should be easy enough."

"Padds," Winston addresses him, his voice taking on a serious tone, "Stop kidding around with me for just _one _second. Do you _really _think it's a good idea to just wing the whole thing? It's the most important part of the Games, and I _don't _wanna get fucked over because we didn't have a good enough plan." The grievance falls between the two of them, and Padds scratches the back of his neck uncomfortably, focusing on the skyscrapers out the window instead while he mulls over his thoughts. The far wall of the bathroom is just glass, but it's reflective so that while tributes shower, they can see out, but the fanatic Capitolites cannot see _in_. _At least I hope so_, he shudders, averse to the thought that he may be getting watched in the nude. _Gross_.

"You remember what Valentine said to you," Padds finally says, mentally weighing the harshness of the statement. "And he might honestly be right, we're already at a disadvantage if we have to get Bash and Arley out alive. I mean, I was sure they could do it up until tonight, and now I'm having my doubts. What if they drag us down?"

"What do you _mean_, Padds?" Winston hisses at his ally, the noise low and raspy.

Padds watches the other boy's eyebrows as they furrow together with worry. "I don't want my chances of going home split in half just because we have to help them escape the bloodbath." At Winston's blank expression, he sighs in frustration. _This isn't like me… I don't _get _frustrated_. "I'm a lot of things, Winston, but I'm not a coward. I'll throw myself into the fray if need be, but I'm just asking you to think about it from a logical standpoint!"

If Challah or his parents were here, no doubt they'd be laughing at the statement. _Padds? Being logical?_ He supposes there is irony in the statement, but more important is making sure he clears the bloodiest fifteen minutes of the Games.

"Okay," Winston begins, his voice subdued. He braces a hand against the counter as if this conversation is greatly taxing. _I get that he sees Bash like a little sister. She's a piece of home._ Padds sighs, knowing full well how it feels. _I never knew Arley before this, but she reminds me of Kieran. Challah a bit too,_ he admits, even though it is a stretch to compare Arley and her naivete to Challah's superiority complex. _I've always thought maybe I could do better for these two than I ever could for my younger siblings_.

The thought hurts, but it is viable. "Like you said, Padds," his ally says. "Why don't we just wing the whole thing and see what happens? If all four of us survive, then fine, no worries. But if we can't save them, we need to know when to stop so that we don't put our own lives at risk," Winston says slowly, and the two exit the bathroom, the conversation terminated. Winston takes off his suit jacket and lays it carefully on the back of the couch, and Padds does likewise, unraveling the scarf from around his neck.

"Hey!" says Bash, brightening up when they walk back into the dim living room. "I heard you two talking about getting supplies when I went to go take off my heels," she says, making Padds freeze. _How much did she hear? _"I think it's a good idea to wing it too," Bash agrees, nodding her head. She makes no sign that she heard any of the conversation that had revolved around her or Arley, and instead goes to sit next to Padds' district partner, who still has the red ribbons wrapped around her feet.

"Look," Arley grins, lifting a bowl above her head. "I have popcorn," she declares, readjusting her copper crown so that it does not slide down her head. "I wonder if anyone will sponsor us some of this in the Games," Arley wonders aloud. Winston and Padds exchange a glance, and the latter cracks a smile.

But the thought of losing his allies lingers, and in the shadow of death, Padds remains faced with a great deal of unshakeable uncertainty.

* * *

**Asher 'Wolfchild' Foster ** (**17**), **District 11 Tribute**

"Well, that went just about as smoothly as planned," Castiel grins jovially at the group of assembled Careers as he walks into the District Four apartment, arms outstretched. The seven of them had arrived in the apartments after dressing down from their glamorous interview outfits, although many of the elements are still visible, such as Hela's dragon-scale makeup and black acrylic nails, which have begun to dig gently into his forearm. The two had been mid-conversation before the District One pair had arrived, consistently the last ones to show up. _Not like any adults are going to mind_, Asher thinks impishly. Siren had informed them that their mentors had left to go drinking to celebrate, which made her and Alton chuckle. _I guess one of their mentors is a drunk_. Lucky enough for him, his mentor Magnolia seems fairly competent. _Not like I spend a lot of time back in the Eleven apartments anyway, though_. Something about the earthy colors reminds him too much of home, and Asher much prefers the sea-inspired upholstery of this apartment. _Change of pace_, he muses quietly from his place on the couch. _Perhaps that's why this whole experience has been nice for me. I can ditch everything behind_. Everything but the pressures of his persona, it would seem.

_And now it's the Wolfchild's turn to reap_… Asher's own words reverberate around his head momentarily, relishing the thought of proving himself to be exactly who he says he is. _No room for weakness_… he sighs, running a hand through his wavy red hair. _But the more time I spend with all of them… with Hela, the weaker I'm going to get_. Asher would never admit it to anyone, but there is a deep-rooted fear lodged in his gut. _I don't want to die being alone._ Love isn't something easy to come across in the orphanages and streets of District Eleven. _What we had was mutual respect. That's it._ There was never _love_ on the streets, nor was there _love_ hidden in the unforgiving void of a Peacekeeper visor. _Only respect, and you never could get anywhere without it_. Respect had caused Asher to do many things, a handful of which he regrets. _But just like the Hunger Games, it's all about survival._

"Hela and Asher..." Castiel continues, making Asher snap to attention. Their leader is pointing an almost accusatory finger at the pair of them where they sit on the couch. "You guys totally killed it out there. If the rest of the tributes weren't afraid of us already, I have no doubts they will be now." The compliment seems to earn Hela's stamp of approval, as her normally frosty smile seems a bit more genuine. _Or maybe I'm just getting better at detecting her emotions_, Asher decides. After all, the pair of them have spent quite a lot of time together ever since the first night of training when he practically attacked her on the landing.

Moses is grinning too, and drapes his fitted navy blue blazer over the back of an equally blue armchair, having not bothered to change into something more comfortable. "Yeah, I'd uh, I'd say that the Capitol would see all of us as crowd favorites," he shrugs, sitting on the arm of the chair casually. Siren nods, folding her arms and leaning against the wall.

The five other Careers are clustered around the doorway, but from the couch, Hela addresses them. "We're the Careers, after all. We might as well be," she says coolly. But the elegant nodding of her head suggests that Hela is in fact pleased with how the interviews turned out. Asher smiles to himself and rests his elbow on the edge of the couch, getting a better view of the rest of the Careers.

"So what's the plan for tomorrow?" Siren asks the group, her jade-colored eyes curious. "Before we enjoy our last night here, I want to know what we should be prepared to do tomorrow, you know?" She and Crescentia look expectantly at Castiel, who suddenly looks rather tired. _Shame_, Asher thinks, feeling slightly irritated by all the moodiness these Careers seem to harbor. _As if you're one to talk_, Asher scolds himself.

"I think we need to take control of the Cornucopia. Supplies are a priority, and it can double as a quick and defensible shelter. Anyone have any ideas or objections?" Castiel asks them.

Asher nods, grinning ear to ear as he raises a hand jokingly. "How about a small group of us rush the Cornucopia and take weapons to defend it with, while the rest of us try to cull the competition while they're vulnerable?"

Hela nods in agreement beside him, a smirk drawn on her face at the thought of a fight. "I like that," she assents. "Why don't you and I thin the herd, Asher?" Hela asks him. He nods in response, offering her a flirty smile.

"You and me, eh?" he asks. She prods him in the ribs with an acrylic nail, making him surrender rather quickly to her patronizing glare.

"Sounds like a plan to me," Moses nods, pushing up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt. "I can play defense, if you guys want," he suggests.

Siren laughs. "I'm good with spears, so I'll volunteer to join Moses. I can keep some of them away from the equipment for the time being." Crescentia seems to be on board with joining the other two, which does raise an eyebrow from Alton. _She did get a one for her score_. _Ruben had a valid point in that, at least. _He's starting to feel suspicious, wondering if Crescentia may have ulterior motives. _But she isn't our concern right now_, Asher decides, remembering his conversation with Hela on the balcony. _We knock the king off his hill first_.

"I can help Hela and Asher," Alton suggests, which makes Asher want to groan aloud. Out of everyone else, Alton is the one he has gotten along with the least, especially after their scuffle in the cafeteria. _I may have to pretend to like him, but Alton doesn't deserve any accolades for helping us take out the rest of the tributes_.

Castiel, however, nods in agreement with the other boy's plans. "Sounds solid. I'll help guard the Cornucopia, but Crescentia and I can help the three of you on offense if we need it. I think since supplies are such a big deal, we need to make sure we are the ones who are getting them."

Asher nods. "We can grab some of the stuff outside the Cornucopia too, assuming it's not a dry year for supplies, that way everyone else doesn't get them. Sounds like a bad day to not be a Career," he says, the mirth in his eyes cancelling out the ruthlessness of the statement. _This is going to be a walk in the park._

Crescentia shrugs. "Fine by me. I think we need to keep an eye on some of the other high scorers, though. District Six could be a problem, same with Winston from Seven, and Ruben from Ten. Should we take them out or avoid them?"

Alton grins. "I can try and take on some of the Sixes, if you guys want. Well, that is if they're close enough to me."

Hela nods. "Asher and I can take down Winston's alliance." This seems to provoke Castiel, who gets offensive all of the sudden.

"No, I'm going to be the one who kills Winston. District Seven is _mine_," Castiel says, all pretenses gone in an instant as his eyes narrow into dark blue thunderclouds. _Damn_. A tense silence falls over the group, and Hela shakes her head in quiet disbelief.

"Do we leave Ruben alone?" asks Moses quietly, breaking the awkward silence.

"I mean," Asher scratches his neck, glad for an excuse to keep the conversation going, "if he doesn't get weapons, he won't be as much of a threat. That whole 'apex predator' thing was bullshit," he laughs. Ruben may have scored an eight, but all Asher can think about is how ridiculous he and his spitfire partner looked on the chariot in front of him during the parade. _A bit hard to take his threats seriously when I can only imagine Ruben with giant pink udders hanging down to his knees. The curse of the outer districts_, Asher supposes.

"I agree. He doesn't have any alliances. So if you can take him out, go for it but if not, he shouldn't be too much of a threat against us," Crescentia informs the rest of them. "Maybe he can even take out some of the other competition." The conversation seems to peter out after the discussion of neutralizing threats, and after a brief side conversation, Alton breaks away to show Castiel and Crescentia something in another room.

An awkward pause falls over the remaining four, but Siren and Moses come sit on the couch opposite them. The four listen to the noises coming from the streets beneath the balcony for a moment before Moses gets up restlessly. "I'm going to go see what Alton's up to," he says, blushing madly.

"Don't get lost!" Siren calls to him, making the back of his neck flush. The three of them mask their chuckling with coughing until Moses has left. "It's obvious, right?" Siren asks. Hela and Asher nod. "They definitely make a cute couple, I think," Siren tells them. "I can think of something else that's pretty obvious too," she grins, tracing her lower lip with her teeth. A stunned silence evolves from her blatant statement, and she stands, flipping her long voluminous hair. "I'm just not sure the two of you realize it yet," Siren grins, walking away from the pair of them to go off somewhere else.

"Hey!" Asher calls out. "What the f-"

"Oh, calm down Wolf Boy," Hela interjects. "You know she's just trying to get under your skin."

"Is she now?" Asher asks. "That's new." The unspoken game of cat-and-mouse continues, and Hela stands up too, teasing her own midnight black hair out of their fancy braids and letting it fall down the small of her back. She struts over to the balcony, leaving him to drool over on the couch. _Do I follow her?_ He ponders, mind racing now that the two of them are left alone again. _I don't know what to do anymore_. But Asher has begun to crave her touches ever since he pinned her against the landing wall, a blade pressed into her pale moon-white neck. She came with a proposition, but in his close proximity to Hela, he could smell the sweet mint on her breath, and feel her heartbeat so close to his own, sending tremors through his skin. _Fuck it_, Asher decides, making the harrowing decision to join her on the ledge.

"Nervous for tomorrow?" Hela asks him, her emerald eyes glimmering in the dusky blue glow the city lights are radiating.

"Nah," Asher says jauntily. _We've most certainly played this game before_. Her lethal wit never ceases to amaze him. "I'm not too worried about the Hunger Games. It's not like they'll make a difference if I get out of here or not," he admits, looking out at the skyline. One forearm is braced against the railing, the other disappearing into the pockets of his skinny jeans, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible. _She likes confidence. I like confidence. It's always been a game of mutual respect_.

"What do you mean?" Hela asks alarmedly. "Why don't they make a difference? I get that the Peacekeepers don't like you, but they can touch you if you win, Asher."

"I know, Asher says solemnly, immediately regretting his choice of words. "But I've got uh... I have skin cancer from exposure to the sun. From all the work they made me do in the fields." Hela is about to say something, lips parted to issue forth a ghostly string of words since Asher cuts her off like he did with Mr. Valentine just an hour before, "I don't need your damn pity, Hela. Spare me the pleasantries, okay? Why would you care anyway?" But it shocks him how crestfallen Hela's face becomes. Normally so cold and composed, she now almost looks _vulnerable_. "I'm sorry," Asher says, trying to amend how stupoid this all feels. Her face hardens again, lips closing again as they stare at each other.

"Asher," she begins quietly, seeming subdued. Hela turns back to the city, fiddling with the cube-shaped gem on the end of her necklace. "Do you think Siren is right?"

"What the hell do you mean? About Moses and Alton? Yes they're a thing," he says exasperatedly, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"No, Asher… about us." Her words get him to look up again, meeting her gaze which now feels deeper and more connected. Her eyes are glistening in the light and Asher feels a pang in his heart as he sees a tear roll down her marble cheeks. He moves in closer to brush it away, closing the gap between them. _How do I feel about Hela?_ Asher wonders, his eyes drinking in the sight of his ethereal warrior goddess. He reaches out to tuck a stray strand of her hair behind her ear, feeling the tips of his fingers crackle with an innate electricity from her cold skin. _From touch. She's strong and powerful… she's hot as hell._ Asher sighs, his breath almost hitching in his chest as the world seems to slow down as she places a hand on his forearm. _Does she want the same things I do? To be loved for once?_ He recalls a lengthy conversation they had after sparring with some trainers about how she came to be a ward of the Academy. _Because she couldn't find any love in her world either_. Asher's skin is prickling, itching to drop the facade that they have begun to build between them.

"Are we dropping the facade?" he asks slowly. "What… h-what do you feel?" Asher asks, feeling unsure as his hand moves to cup the side of her face. Hela catches his hand, and he doesn't know who initiates it, but the two close the distance even further, becoming one as his lips find hers, feverish with repressed desire. It is brief, yet electrical, and Asher doesn't want to open his eyes, for nothing in the world could be better than finally getting to taste the soft sweetness of Hela Mistlyre's lips.

She draws back for a moment, placing a slender hand on his chest. "I feel like tonight feels right to get this all out before we crush some skulls tomorrow," she whispers, a confession that makes Hela bite her lip and lower her eyes almost shyly. _Enough of the talking about death and gloom_, Asher thinks. _I'm getting through her armored skin_, he thinks, desperate to understand the enigma in front of him. _I want to know Hela for who she really is_.

"Ah, but where were we?" he asks, a sultry undertone in his voice. The two lean into each other, and he takes his hand off the railing, winding it through her dark silky hair. Her breath smells of mint, a scent which drives him wild, and he kisses her hungrily, supernovas bursting behind his closed eyelids as their lips collide. Her body is fierce and rigid against his own, and his free hand explores her slender curves as she presses into him. Hela's lips taste divine, a sensation which causes his entire body to tremble, as if she is the lost component of him that he has been desperately seeking for so long. She caves into his kisses, each one simultaneously fiercer and softer than the last, but it is Hela who surprises Asher by introducing her tongue to his mouth.

Hela caresses the side of his face gently, as if to tell him it would be a sin to break away. Eventually they must, and both are breathing hard as her lips disentangle from his own, the cold breeze dancing chilly figure-eights across his own lips as they stand separated, an inch apart. Asher holds her in his arms, seeing for the first time a barrier knocked down behind her guarded green eyes, and he knows that one must have fallen behind his own. But things feel stripped away completely, and Asher is no longer the dangerous Wolfchild; he can just be _Asher_, and maybe for once she can just be Hela, at least until tomorrow.

Her touch is cool against his feverish skin, a symphony of fire and ice that melts his heart into a gooey mess at the bottom of his ribcage, and Asher finds her lips again, brushing them softly with his thumb before drawing her close so that the world cannot take her away. _Not yet_. He breathes in her sweet fragrance as she buries her head in his shoulder, and he rests his chin on her head protectively, blinking back tears of his own.

Tonight - for Asher at least - professions of love have been made in the looming shadow of death, and it might just be enough to keep him going.

* * *

**Halley Verron** (**12**), **District 8 Tribute**

The euphoria that had radiated from within Halley following the interviews dissipates as soon as she sets foot back in the District Eight apartments. The cold atmosphere of the forlorn-looking dining area dampens her spirits, the breath leaving Halley's lungs as if they are a pair of paper bags that have been crumpled and discarded. Something about the ghostly luminescence of the city lights illuminating the dining area strikes a dark chord within Halley, reminding her of the identical ambiance that shrouded the ruins of the old Verron home. She is grateful when Augustus, their escort, claps his hands and the cold blue glow is replaced by the soft dusky orange lights hanging down from the ceiling like drops of liquid amber.

Halley remains frozen in the doorway, unable to relinquish the feelings in the pit of her stomach. Halley remembers nights sitting curled on the entryway steps of the decrepit building across the street from her home, watching the soot-stained rubble as if her willpower alone could resurrect her parents from the conflagration that had razed the home to the ground. _Just months after Mom and Dad had saved enough money to move out of the tenements_, Halley remembers. _I remember a lot of things_.

"Halley?" Augustus asks, a perplexed look on his face. "Are you alright?" She nods a weak yes, and the man strolls off to his chambers, beckoning an Avox to come help him with some trivial task or other. Halley takes another step into the now well-lit main room, pulling out a barstool and sitting on it. The counter feels smooth and cold under her fingertips, and Halley rests her head on her left arm, drawing circles on its surface with her free index finger.

Her interview went about as well as expected, with the red-haired Master of Ceremonies leaning forward and prompting her with a multitude of questions she felt too tired to answer. Halley had spoken of her experiences, the determination coursing through her veins like never before. _I'm a survivor. I can do this._ It hurts Halley to hear so many tributes talk about their loved ones at home. Boyfriends and girlfriends, brothers, sisters, fathers and mothers. _And I have no one rooting for me_. Halley stops tracing circles with her finger, feeling tears well up to her eyes.

It stings. _No use in lying about it_, Halley knows. _No use in pretending._ Her mind is filled with visions of glory, of streamers and shouting and parades. Of the golden textiles spun by the sun itself, that she wears now only under the mighty shadow of death. _But there isn't anything waiting for me back home. There won't be, except a home. A real, honest-to-goodness home._

The fact is tarnished by how empty it would be, despite Halley telling Mr. Valentine that she would fill the home with all of the other orphans that the foster homes were too full to take. Alone in the Victors Village with Twyla, the sole mentor that she and Darnius share. It's a home her parents would die for, though the thought makes the back of Halley's throat feel sour and acidic. _They already died for one house_, she thinks, the flames threatening to ignite behind her eyelids as she draws in a deep breath.

"Hey Halley," Darnius announces himself, putting a hand on the counter next to her. Halley can feel her stomach grow tense, as if she must prepare herself to slap him again like she did on the night of the parade. The pair haven't spoken to each other very much, since facing Darnius seems to take every ounce of energy left in her body. _I don't want to hear what Darnius has to say_, Halley tells herself, refusing to lift her head off her arm. She resumes tracing circles on the countertop. Ironically, though being alone is the last thing Halley wants right now, it is the only thing that will help her deal with the weights of the world that have been carelessly chained around her neck.

"Look, I'm sorry for what I said that night, okay?" Darnius pleads with her. After a moment of silence, he shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it across the back of a barstool chair. The jacket clashes with the rest of the surprisingly simplistic apartment, being a chaotic pattern of autumn colors that add a pop of color to the otherwise bleak looking apartment. The swatches of color remind Halley of the leaves that would fall off the massive sycamore tree in one of District Eight's few parks when the autumn season began. She used to climb between the branches to avoid the larger street boys and angry Peacekeepers. _It felt safe up there_, Halley recalls. _Like I was on top of the world, away from all of this horseshit_.

In response, Halley shakes her head softly. The curls the stylists spent hours putting in her hair bounce against her shoulders, a stark contrast to the usual ponytail she keeps her hair in. _I don't want to talk to him about this_. "You aren't, Darnius," Halley replies simply.

Darnius sighs and runs fingers through his thick hair, tousling it in a way that would almost be laughable if the situation the two of them were in was different. "Give me some credit, okay?" he sighs, the drawn-out sound escaping his lips and making him seem to deflate. His shoulders curl inward, and for a millisecond, Halley feels bad for Darnius. She recalls the conversation they had on the train after the recap aired. After Darnius had helped her clean herself off, scrubbing vomit out of the beautiful paisley dress she had taken from Miss Lylanis on the day of the Reapings. It was a conversation about his girlfriend back home in Eight, and how much Darnius was going to miss her. _He must really be in love_, Halley thinks wryly, wondering what it must feel like to fall for someone like her district partner has. _I could die tomorrow without ever getting to know what it feels like to kiss someone!_ It's a feat most twelve-year-olds cannot boast off, save the flirty girl from District Seven who absolutely _gushes_ when Mr. Valentine asks her anything. Darnius clears his throat, drawing her back to the present. "I… I didn't know about your situation, Halley. I'm sorry for making fun of your friend…"

Halley feels him move behind her, the sounds of his dress shoes clacking against the floor. The leather couch groans as Darnius sits in it, but Halley still stares ahead, now trying to immerse herself in the elaborate stonework of the decor wall behind the counter. _There have been so many things…_ so many things that young Halley Verron has said and done in her life, just to scrape by another day on the wintry streets of Eight. Someone like Darnius would never look at her. _He wouldn't care_. She had heard it in his voice, when she turned her back on the crowd, hoping that they wouldn't turn their back on her. _The anger and the hope. He's oblivious_.

"Well, you're right! You didn't know, did you? What kind of excuse _is_ that?" Her fists curl inward again, and Halley straightens up in her seat with a huff, staring him down with her arms folded. _I kept fighting until I could beat those boys_, she thinks to herself as Darnius struggles for an answer. _Not so I could sit beneath them and let them lay the law of the land._

"It's not an excuse," Darnius tells her, rubbing his forehead in frustration. "I'm sorry, Halley." He frowns, and she sees a bitter veil descend over his eyes. "But it isn't my fault, okay? You aren't the only person in this world who's lost people, you know?"

Now it's her turn to frown, and Halley can feel hot tears of anger come to her eyes. "Don't belittle me, _Darnius_. I didn't put myself out there for the world to see just to be ridiculed." Upon seeing his expression shift, she pauses, hands hanging limp and useless at her side. _None of this is my fault_, Halley thinks, watching the myriad of blue city lights dance across the walls behind Darnius, their intensity not unlike the colors on his jacket. _But brighter. More artificial._

"I'm sorry," Halley whispers, seeing a pained tear come to his eye. Darnius furiously scrubs it away with his hand, but she's already seen it. A horrible silence falls between the two district partners, a silence broken only by the rhythmic hum of wind against the glass doors of the balcony. A tension seems to grow again in between them, one which hurts worse than the last few days of silence. "Was it your girlfriend?" Halley finally asks, her voice hoarse in her throat, sticking to the sides like one of the caramel candies she spies sitting untouched in a glass bowl on the dining table.

Darnius looks up, his eyes shrouded in an emotion Halley can't quite read. "No. My mother." He turns his head as if to shield her from seeing the emotions on his face, and she dismounts from the barstool, closing the distance between them to take one of his larger hands into one of her own. He looks up at her and she at him, a fierce battle of stubbornness playing out in the space between them. "Tell me, Darnius."

He shakes his head slowly, as if it is a great anguish to get off his chest. _It's hard for Darnius to share how he feels_, Halley deduces, watching the storms unravel behind his eyes as he tries to navigate them. But Halley is lost inside her own storms, and there seems to be no plausible way to bridge the chasm that has deepened between the two of them.

For her, the Capitol has been a strange mix of opportunity and dreams crushed beneath the boots of the militant Peacekeeper legions on their daily march through the streets. Miss Lylanis, the homeless shelter caretaker, had always spoken to her of the Capitol. _That all the good boys and girls could come here and be servants for them_. Servants, like the mutilated Avoxes with their tongues brutally torn from their mouths. _Old Man Henderson told me the streets were paved in gold, and that ivory towers of the Capitol never slept._ But there were little embers of opportunity too, when the crowds scream for her, or when she finishes the Gauntlet and earns a nod of approval from Head Gamemaker Vetura. _When I scored a goddamn six for all my efforts_. It's as if all of the small things have begun to coalesce in the face of imminent danger, the danger of death which rests on the eaves of morrow. _The balance is fragile enough, between life and death_. It is a tightrope that Halley has walked many times in the dark alleyways behind factory and tenement alike; now it is a tightrope Halley must walk as a performer.

_My death is going to bring them entertainment_, she muses, then making the conscious decision not to allow her performance to fail. _I don't want to be another forgotten tribute_.

"You think we'll be joining them soon?" Darnius asks suddenly, his eyes now wet with tears. "Our parents?" It is an expression that shocks Halley to her core. Stoic-faced Darnius, with his brave attitude and his brash demeanor… _crying_. It makes her upset, and Halley can feel it in her stomach, twisting like a knife. Bile rises to her throat, and Halley blinks back tears of her own. The emptiness that lies ahead, the _unknown_, scares her. _We could be dead tomorrow_.

But Halley shakes the negative thoughts out of her head. There is a phrase her mentor drilled into them on the train. _The pair of you have some real grit_. She doesn't know what Darnius has gone through, but the pair of them have carried the world on their shoulders, and that is enough to sate the nagging curiosity which tickles the back of her mind.

Halley wraps her arms around Darnius' chest, taking him by surprise. Halley presses the side of her face into his charcoal black shirt, and squeezes him tight, as if she can stop the momentum of the oncoming Hunger Games and allow them to breathe and be human for one last moment. "No." The word hangs heavy between them as his arms clasp Halley behind her shoulders. She can hear Darnius' heartbeat through his stomach, and she takes a deep breath, readying herself to speak again. "We won't."

Darnius nods and sobers himself, his expression turning stony at Halley's reassurance. "Do me a favor, Halley," he whispers. She looks up, her eyes blurring over from the all pent-up anguish harbored in her chest. "Tomorrow… if we both survive the bloodbath… promise me we'll find each other so that I know you're okay. I don't want to have to wait until they show the faces of the dead in the sky."

Halley smiles at him, the strange mixture of hope and sadness continuing its slow bloom in her chest. "Not 'if,' Darnius," she tells him softly. "_When_."

They stand together in the darkness for a while, as even when death is staring them down with its dark and malevolent eyes, there is a comfort to be found even in former enemies.

* * *

**Calvus Duran** (**29**), **Peacekeeper**

The unsleeping city pries into the secret intimacy of their room, its bright neon blue lights tracing the floor from where the half-cracked blinds cannot block it out. Vivianne lies at his side, with her arm curled across his neck. He takes shallow breaths, trying not to wake her. Calvus can hear the Capitol bustling from the aftermath of the interviews; a shallow drum of excitement he doubts will stop until the earliest hours of the morning.

_They revel in death, as do the two of us_, Calvus thinks solemnly. His mind wanders to the twenty-four tributes locked inside the Training Center, left to contemplate their oncoming deaths as the clock winds down.

_I am glad there is no clock ticking down on my life_, he decides. Eleven years working as a Peacekeeper for the Capitol has taught him a lot about the rules of death and disobedience. _The rules of death which are made and enforced by the Gamemakers... by my darling Vivianne._ Calvus sighs, the sound breaking the barrier of silence that had fallen thickly upon the room, and sits up straighter.

"Hey Viv," Calvus whispers softly, his breath stirring her tousled hair. The woman of his dreams mumbles something unintelligible into his broad chest, lost within the rising and falling of the breaths he dares to steal from the clandestine air of the apartment. "Are you nervous for tomorrow morning?"

Vivianne sits up abruptly next to him and blinks, drawing the linen sheet close to her chest as to not expose herself any further. _To hide_. "What the hell makes you think I'm nervous for tomorrow?" Vivianne asks him indignantly. Calvus sighs again, his breath crystallizing in the cold air like a cloud of mist escaping from his lips. He does not need to speak his mind, as Vivianne can read it more often than not. "There will be blood on my hands, sure," she says calmly, running one of those very hands through her midnight black hair to untangle it, the neon lights of the city reflecting against the bold silver streaks he has come to adore. Vivianne rests her back against the headboard and stares out the apartment window where the blue lights spy upon the two of them, almost refusing to meet his gaze. _She always does this when she thinks I'm going to be mad at her,_ Calvus notes, propping himself up on an elbow to drink in the sight of her bare beige skin against the dusky blue sheets.

"You know I have no shame for what I do," Vivianne admits to him, the words chilling Calvus more than the temperature of the room. His umber skin prickles with goosebumps. "I've been a Gamemaker for sixteen years," she tells him, the muscles in her neck twitching as she speaks. "It took twelve to get where I am now… there is enough blood on my hands, and I _don't_ mind adding more." Vivianne turns, bridging the gap between them to meet his honey-colored eyes with her own mud brown ones. The eyes so usually full of life and passion are dead and cold, and though he cannot help flinching at the sight, Calvus does not recoil.

Vivianne slowly shakes her head, her hair falling in messy cascades down the front of her face. "You wouldn't quite get it, Calvus…" she tells him.

Calvus sits up to join her at eye level now, his calloused fingers slipping into hers gently, offering her a warm smile. "So tell me, Viv."

"You-" Vivianne rolls her eyes at his stubbornness. He gives her an insistent look. "Fine. It's all for the greater good, don't you think?" Calvus shrugs, feeling her hand grip his tighter, manicured fingernails digging into his calloused palms. _The same palms that have held the grip of many guns, which now get to hold _her _hands instead_. At least for the time being. "The Games, all of it. We're doing it to protect them from each other. To protect them from _us_," Vivianne tells him, and Calvus can sense that she is laying her entire hand of cards down on the table for him to see plainly. "You remember what happened, what we did to District Thirteen… we _all_ know what we're capable of. This is how we keep the districts alive, and keep them in line. It makes sense, doesn't it? The system?" Vivianne searches his eyes, a glimmer of hope blooming in her irises as he nods his head, giving his lover the most reassuring smile he can muster.

"I'm a Peacekeeper, Viv. Have been for almost as long as you've been a Gamemaker... I _know _what you mean. You know I always do." Calvus reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. She shivers at his touch, since the hand had been resting on top of the comforter, exposed to the chill of the air conditioner. "Since when have you cared about what anyone has ever thought about you?"

"Never…" Vivianne admits, breathing shakily. "But I know they all think I'm a _monster_. That I enjoy killing these children," she says bluntly. Calvus shakes his head, but the dark thoughts always find a way to return to him. _I've seen her on stage, in front of mass congregations and crowds. Vivianne fucking loves it._ It doesn't matter what must be sacrificed if the fame and glory is the reward for reaping the lives of innocent lambs. _She would drink from a fountain of fame until she burst,_ Calvus thinks, feelings of admiration stirring in his chest at how ambitious his lover is.

"Who cares if you do? I don't think you're a monster," Calvus assures her, his fingers tracing the curve of Vivianne's jaw. "And if you are, you're a beautiful monster to me," he says, drawing Vivianne in for a kiss. Her lips are soft and sensuous, her tongue equally strong and sweet. Vivianne swings herself off the bed so that she is straddling him, the sheet falling down to expose her sculpted body.

"How tragic," she muses, cocking an eyebrow as they break from their second kiss, "that our love is marked with the weight of such death." Her voice is thin and trails off into the chilly air, and his hands run up her toned body, the muscles in his arms flexing as he does. _God, she's amazing_, Calvus thinks. He's been sleeping with her for almost a year and a half now, since the President assigned him as one of her personal guards. And the lust only grows in his eyes as Calvus spends more time with her, as if following her around all the time masked behind his white uniform is hard enough. _All I want to do is be with her, just like this. To be free from all the pressure, all the obligations..._

"What's love without tragedy?" Calvus asks her, leaning up as his lips seek out Vivianne's. The two of them spend yet another night in his apartment, the lights sparkling across their skin in the dance of love. But when she's curled up again against his side once more, Calvus is still wide awake. His eyes search the empty blackness, the soft blue lights gone as he stares hard at the blank ceiling.

Despite his many professions of love, Calvus Duran cannot help but wonder if there will be a special place in hell for all of them when this is over and done with.

* * *

**CHAPTER 19**

**THE LAUNCH**

* * *

**Vivianne Vetura** (**41**), **Head Gamemaker**

The world seems to weigh on her mind this morning as Vivianne sips her bitter black coffee from a plain white mug. The rim has a small chip in it from the time Vivianne knocked it off her desk; now it is missing a chunk of the geometric wings of the ever-present Capitol Seal. _Adds character, I guess, _Vivianne thinks as she drums her fingers against the smooth surface of her desk. The aromatic smell of her coffee helps to combat the intrusive smell of antiseptic that seems to permeate the air in the Gamemaker Institute.

She had no trouble scanning her identification card today… in fact, the last week or so leading up to the Games, there has been a change in that particular routine. _Whether or not those two were replaced, I'll never know_. But since then, the electronic ledger has had no problems scanning her into the complex.

Vivianne sighs, feeling the chilly air conditioning kick in, and she takes one last drink from the mug before setting it down rim side up before exiting the room. It's an old habit, but one that ensures that the Avoxes do not come in and clean her office. If there is a ring of coffee dried onto the desk, she knows they have skipped her office space for one more grateful to receive their services.

Vivianne adjusts the cuffs of her thick white lab coat, pushing them up to her elbows. The shawl lapels of the coat she smooths with her hand, a cautionary gesture that reminds her a great deal of her colleague Tarquinius Valentine, whose performance last night was less than stellar. _He might be running out of chances_, Vivianne worries as she approaches the elevator. It's smooth chrome doors close behind her as she speeds down to the control room, buried beneath the rest of the Institute.

Delicate glass-like screen monitors blink and beep from every corner of the room, displaying a steady flow of statistical information. Some pertain to the tributes, but most show a constant detailed report of the arena, being carefully scrutinized by her team of Gamemakers for any last-minute flaws. _Hell, there's a whole screen detailing the grass types in the Biological Department_. She watches with a sort of mild curiosity as one of her subordinates issues a command into a keyboard and the grass on display begins to wilt, turning brittle and brown in a matter of seconds.

_Complete control_. Everything - down to every _single_ blade of grass - is under Vivianne's control, and it feels absolutely amazing to know she is responsible for creating and directing such a masterpiece. Vivianne and her team had been working a vast amount of overtime to complete any last minute preparations before the Games actually begin. Like the tributes' training schedule, the Hunger Games begin each year at exactly ten-o-clock. _That way everyone in the Capitol gets their beauty sleep_. Vivianne frowns to herself and walks briskly into the fray of her hardworking subordinates. _Everyone except for me_, she gripes.

"Miss Vetura, the report on the bivouacs we implanted have come back. Do you want the details, ma'am, or would you prefer the folder?" asks a voice from behind her. Vivianne turns around tiredly, wishing she were still nestled in the sheets with Calvus, to face one of her subordinates. _I swear, one day I'd kill to sleep in_. Not that she needs to _actually_ kill anyone, unlike the twenty-four tributes who are being prepared to be launched headfirst into their darkest realities.

"Debrief me," Vivianne instructs. "The details are fine. How are they reacting to the new environment? Reports showed me that _some_ of the creatures began _eating_ each other. That's been stopped, right?" Vivianne grimaces.

"They're fine, actually," the other Gamemaker informs her. "None of them have killed each other yet, and I think that all three colonies are getting along just swimmingly. We tweaked the sedentary cycles to make sure they aren't active during the day unless disturbed or provoked, and increased the level of pheromone activity to make sure they all knew not to eat each other. I think that w-"

"Fantastic," Vivianne grunts, cutting off the woman. The geneticists cooked up quite the interesting muttation this year. _Couple that with the overtime our biological engineering unit has put in this year, and I'm surprised we haven't filed for bankruptcy the way they each demand a goddamn raise._ "And you have re-tested the pH levels of the formic acid, right? I want to make sure we've done it correctly."

The other woman nods. "We gave _Mortem exercitus_ double the normal potency. You sure you don't want the folder?"

"Yes. We have a lot more to do and none of it requires me to do a little 'light' reading," Vivianne tells the woman, a mocking tone forming in her voice. Vivianne Vetura is clearly _not_ a morning person.

Vivianne dismisses the woman, and begins a second foray into the mass of busy people dressed in their standard crisp white uniforms. A line of them are seated at desktop monitors in a circle surrounding the largest object in the room, a holographic map that displays the topography, foliage and obstacles of the arena in a stunning amount of clarity and detail. She watches as a man gently uses his fingers in the air to zoom in on one of the bivouacs before she loses interest in the endeavor and turns her attention to more pressing situations. "What are the tributes doing right now?" Vivianne asks aloud. _Organized chaos is the only way to describe this shit,_ she groans. "Tracking Department, I need a status report. Where are they in the launch process?"

One of the Gamemakers on the further end of the subterranean complex calls back to her as loud as he can over the ongoing commotion. "All twenty-four of our tributes are approaching the launch room as we speak." Vivianne nods, pointing to a screen which displays the headshots of all the tributes taken after the Reapings. "These are going to glow when they have been injected with the tracking serum," the man affirms, though she's been through this procedure several times already.

"Can we get the launch room cameras front and center please?" Vivianne asks aggressively, nodding her head in approval when the gargantuan arena projection is wiped clean, thousands of blue pixels morphing into a display of the launch room.

Twenty-four pressurized tubes rise out of the small rooms that each tribute will get to say their final goodbyes in, forming a ring of pedestals above ground. The smooth golden curvature of the Cornucopia horn is lost in the holographic transmission, but someone in the Weather Department has pulled up the Cornucopia arrangements on a larger monitor. "Make it rain," Vivianne commands, watching in satisfaction as sheets of rain begin to pelt down onto the ground. "A little lighter," she decides. "We want to be able to _see_ the tributes. This is one of the most important shots in the Hunger Games, so change that."

The man does, and once she is satisfied, Vivianne returns to the projection of the launch room.

"Somebody get me a heat map," she orders. "I want to see when all of the tributes get into the tubes before they are launched. No goofy shit. No fuck ups." _There's far too much riding on this, as usual_, Vivianne scoffs. Months upon months of preparations have been undertaken for this, culminating in the launch of the tributes. _And it's going to be glorious_.

"Yes ma'am!" comes a chorus from some of the nearby Gamemakers. The map quickly layers the heat map over the projection, the blue pixels being stripped away and replaced with colored ones. The pedestals and the Cornucopia are still a light blue, and Vivanne can make out the shapes of scattered supplies between the little tufts of grass. The launch room is a comfortable green shade, yet the absence of any warm colors is beginning to irritate her. "Tracking! Status report?"

"Tributes are having the injections administered right now," a voice calls out to her. Vivianne looks back at the tracking screen, seeing a couple of the headshots light up from black-and-white pictures to colored ones.

"Good," she says absently, glancing up at the clock. _Five minutes to launch._ A few red figures begin to appear on the projection screen. Mentors and their tributes offering last-minute advice. _Must be one hell of a morning for them, too_, Vivianne starts to think as she watches a few of the pairs go in for hugs. First, the tributes were sent to the stylists to get dressed in the proper arena uniforms. Then they were allowed an hour long breakfast to stock up on any last calories they may need before entering the arena. _Though_, Vivianne muses with a wry smile, _are the smart tributes the ones who stock up or the ones who don't?_ Calories could help in any given arena, but feeling sluggish during the bloodbath could be a death sentence.

Her thoughts return to the control room as the final headshot lights up. The room falls silent as the Gamemaker team watches the twenty-four little orange-and-red figures, alone now since their mentors had departed. Districts Eight and Eleven, having only a single mentor, had the shortest goodbyes, but Vivianne knows the Career districts had been given last minute advice on not survival, but how to make a kill entertaining for the Capitol audience.

There is a countdown in the room, one which began at five minutes and has dwindled its way down to forty seconds. Vivianne presses the signal button, speaking into a microphone that can be heard from hundreds of miles away in the arena. "Tributes, it is time to launch," she instructs monotonously. At thirty seconds, all twenty-four tributes have stepped into their tubes and are sealed in. Her heart is hammering in anticipation, the erratic beat causing Vivianne to breathe heavily as the digital numbers begin the final stretch of their annual countdown.

_Everything relies on this moment_, she knows. _All of the preparations this year will finally come to fruition._ The numbers tick down to ten, nine, eight, seven. Vivianne's heart swells with anticipation, the visions of carnage and fame filling her head until she feels momentarily nauseous. _It's finally happening. _The tubes begin to launch, all moving at a slow, steady pace toward the pedestals. Toward the light, for the tributes in the tubes are enveloped in darkness; feeling a fear which must be palpable. _This is it_.

The pedestals all open to raise the tributes into the arena, and the monitors on the walls give way to the colorized version of the events about to unfold. Everyone waits with tense and bated breath as the tubes are closed off behind them, as the timer hits zero. The numbers flash twice before resetting to a stagnant sixty, the numbers flashing on screen above the Cornucopia as the arrayed circle of tributes looks on. She closes her eyes and hears the countdown begin. For her, the world has come to a halt.

The twenty-ninth annual Hunger Games have arrived.

* * *

**Author's Note: I won't be screaming because it was **_**barely**_ **a biweekly update which is generally my goal. God, this has been a long time in the making. I am super super proud and **_**hella**_ **excited to say that the very next chapter posted is going to be our bloodbath! Death is the Rule is officially going to be moving into the arena stage of things, and I am beyond pumped up and excited for it! I wasn't sure I'd make it here, to be honest.**

**We had a couple nice moments here the night before launch, and a last Vivianne POV before the Games, as it will be quite a while before we hear from her again. I hope you all enjoyed this… it was bittersweet for me, as there is no looking back now for me or the tributes. Speaking of those tributes, here is the finalized alliance list going into the Games. I get a feeling some of those might soon be subject to some changes…**

* * *

**ALLIANCES:**

* * *

_**Career Pack**_**: Castiel (D1M), Crescentia (D1F), Moses (D2M), Hela (D2F), Alton (D4M), Siren (D4F), Asher (D11M)**

_**Angsty Teen Romance**_**: Sorrel (D5M), 'Nyx' (D5F)**

_**Planes, Trains and Automobiles**_**: Axel (D6M), Mercedes (D6F)**

_**Teens & Beans**_**: Winston (D7M), 'Bash' (D7F), 'Padds' (D9M), Arley (D9F)**

_**Damage Control**_**: Tangaria (D11F), Reynolds (D12M), Mariela (D12F)**

_**Loners: **_**Edward (D3M), Brita (D3F), Darnius (D8M), Halley (D8F), Ruben (D10M), 'Evie' (D10F)**

* * *

**For everyone and anyone who has stuck with me until now, I appreciate you all so much more than you know. This isn't quite over yet - not by a long shot - but this is a major hurdle and I am so happy to have gotten over it. I hope you guys are as excited as I am! Cornucopia sponsoring will officially close within 24 hours for the few of you who have not elected to do so yet. After that, anything sponsored from that point forward will, for the remaining duration of Death is the Rule, be an actual sent-on-a-parachute sponsor gift. That's all for now, so keep your eyes peeled for the next update… when I come back with the update, blood is going to be spilled...**

**Lastly, with all of the craziness regarding the COVID-19 going around, please wash your hands and stay safe everyone! Hopefully all of this is going to run its course or be solved soon, so here's to hoping all of the affected areas and people heal and begin to get better. We're all in this together! Have an amazing day/night you guys! :)))**


	20. Chapter 20: Showtime

_Well I guess you took my youth_

_And gave it all away_

_Lost within my plans for life,_

_It all seems so unreal_

-Pantera, Cemetery Gates

* * *

**CHAPTER 20**

**THE COUNTDOWN**

* * *

**Sebastiana Ridgewood **(**12**), **District 7 Tribute**

There is a great stillness in the atmosphere, a blanket of silence that engulfs the entirety of Panem as the nation waits with bated breath for the pedestals to rise. An immense sound resonates from beneath the earth, a thundering noise as twenty-four pedestals climb like drills from the soil. A hissing noise fills the air as the tubes depressurize, all movement ceased as the pedestals grind to a halt, exposing the tributes to their first glimpses of the arena.

Bash lightly grimaces as she surveys the situation laid out in front of her. A great golden horn sits in the middle of a field of sparse grasses, with patches of dirt breaking between the thin green strands. There are a few crates just inside the edge of the horn, and an olive drab green backpack resting on top one of them. From her position situated on the far right side of the semicircle arrangement of pedestals, Bash cannot see too far inside the Cornucopia. But above the horn's gleaming metallic surface, a display of holographic numbers is being projected into the sky. They are red in color, and begin counting down the moment the pedestal beneath her ceases to move. _Sixty seconds._

As the numbers tick down to _fifty-nine_, Bash can feel the beginnings of a light rain fall down from the heavens above, causing her to look up and squint into the air. A fat droplet of rain splatters into her open eye, and Bash blinks hard, trying not to double over and lose her balance. Instead, she looks down and takes her index finger, wiping the film of water off her eye.

To her right is Sorrel, the boy from District Five, and Castiel from District One. When Castiel catches her looking at him, the Career gives her a murderous glare. Castiel's curly blond hair is already wet, clinging to his forehead and hanging low in his narrowed eyes, a dark look inside them. _That can't be good_, Bash thinks, swallowing heavily and turning her gaze elsewhere. Beyond the two tributes to her right lies a crooked line of trees, their leafy boughs already swaying under the gentle force of the rain. This makes Bash smile. _If there are trees, Winston and I are going to be right at home_, she thinks cheerily. But then her thoughts sour from the thoughts of what she heard transpire last night.

_Things have been so easy up until now. _From popcorn to a Capitol reality television show that spurred a lengthy discussion about _storks_, Bash feels like her stay in the Capitol had been enjoyable, at the very least. _Probably easier than most people have had it_, Bash thinks as she eyes the girl beside her. To her knowledge, Halley - the District Eight girl - did not have any allies to brighten her experience. _But maybe she's better off without them_, Bash thinks. _Mine are certainly making me nervous now_. In truth, Bash hadn't slept a wink at all last night after hearing Winston and Padds discuss ditching Arley and herself in the middle of the bloodbath. Trying to fake upbeat and cheerful feelings during breakfast with Winston the morning after had _not_ been an easy feat, either.

_Just because I got a low score doesn't mean I'm useless_, Bash thinks, mentally berating the pair of them. It's something she should have done last night, even though Bash was not intended to be privy to the conversation. She shakes her head, spraying droplets of rain on the ground, which has become marshy. A combination of fear and physical sensation bring her back to the present situation, with _fifty-three_ seconds left on the countdown. The rain is surprisingly cold as it drizzles against her dark caramel skin, repelling off the raspberry pink nylon windbreaker she wears underneath the black tactical jacket each tribute received, all twenty four tributes sporting different colors beneath the same black outerwear. Fear has begun to worm its way into her gut, and Bash suddenly feels very exposed standing on the pedestal.

Undoubtedly her family is watching from home right now; _every_ citizen in Panem is tuned in to watch the beginning of the Hunger Games. It hurts too, to think about what remains of her family clustered about the living room in their tiny four-room house above the Ridgewood Restaurant. _We already lost Mom to the sickness_, Bash thinks morosely. _I can't imagine what they would feel if they had to watch me die too_. Something tells her it would be a lot quieter at home, and Bash resolves not to be the one who lets that happen. _I won't let Dad lose another person he's close to_, she decides. Apart from Bash and her three siblings, he has no one else left in the world to turn to. _And I don't want him to watch his family get torn apart anymore. Our family_, she reminds herself.

Bash scours the circle, looking for her allies. _Winston and Arley are pretty close together_, she notes. Only two pedestals separate them, but Padds is the furthest tribute on the left hand side, with nothing but a stretch of muddy grass to his left. Backpacks litter the field between all of the tributes, of varying sizes and distances, and there is a thick layer of tension that has settled upon the group of tributes. Bash can feel her heart hammer in her throat as she blinks away rain, settling on a large-looking brown backpack closest to the edge of the Cornucopia. _It's just in front of me_, she thinks earnestly. _I can get it, no problem. _

_The boys won't be complaining any more when I'm the only one who got supplies_.

_Where do we run_? Bash wonders. _Padds elected to just wing everything, but where do we go after this_? Her eyes scan the treeline, trying to make out openings, but the rain and the distance have made it rather hard to see anything beyond the curved line of shivering tributes.

But irregardless, the countdown continues above the massive golden horn, its numbers casting a faint neon glow through the thin and hazy effect the rain has on her vision. _Fifty-one seconds until this begins_, Bash notes, her fingers tingling with a wary sort of anticipation.

Once the timer reaches zero, there is no going back.

* * *

**Darnius Paisley **(**16**), **District 8 Tribute**

Darnius has never been more worried in his life. _A dead man walking, with no way to admit it_, his brain tells him despite promises spoken to his young district partner the night before. He has felt a strange mixture of admiration and sorrow for Halley ever since their conversation, but Darnius is determined to make sure that they do meet after the bloodbath. _We'd make Twyla proud, even if just for the night_, Darnius thinks. It's almost laughable how dead-set their mentor had been on trying to force the two of them into an alliance. _All I know is that I'm not going to be the one to kill her_. Seeing Halley's face in the sky is not a situation that he wants to be in, but realistically, the two of them are facing odds that are not quite stacked in their favor.

His eyes look warily up at the timer as it spirals down toward the dreaded zero digits, but for now it breaks a precarious _fifty seconds_. Darnius chooses to close his eyes, trying to focus on the rain as it pelts his skin. It doesn't do to focus on all of the horrible things that the morning's events will hold. _If I allow myself to be frightened, I'm going to allow myself to be slaughtered_. And though he may not have a lot to go back for in District Eight, Darnius still wants to go home. There has been so much pain at home, he knows, from when his mother died and his father fell into a spiral of depression. _But there has also been so much hope_. And at the end of the day, _hope_ is the only thing that the beaten-down citizens of District Eight have left to cling to.

He had felt hope this morning, a little unfurling rosebud in his chest that has since been doused in kerosene and set alight. _There is no room for hope in the mind of a survivor_, Darnius thinks. _I have to be smart about this_. The morning had felt rushed, with he and Halley trying to eat breakfast and get dressed in the black arena gear that the stylists laid out for them. It had been the same for both, a black military jacket, black pants, and black tactical boots with a telltale waterproof sheen that Darnius is able to pick up on, being from the fabrics district. The only thing that sets the two apart is what color the rest of the gear is. Whereas his nylon windbreaker, socks and the number emblazoned on the back of the heavy black jacket is a cider orange, Halley's is a red ochre color. _I still don't know if I ate enough_, Darnius returns to the important questions, making a mental note to himself. _Too late if I didn't_. _It could be my last meal for a while, but I do need to make sure that it won't hinder me from sprinting away_, he thinks slowly, trying to ignore the tension mounting in front of him.

By surveying the semicircle arrangement of tributes, Darnius can see a few who look eager to jump into the fray. It's mostly the Careers, who are likely gunning for the Cornucopia - and judging by the telltale glint Darnius can see from inside, they are going for the weapons too - although some others are staring intently at each other, or at backpacks resting on the marshy ground. The continuous rain, albeit only having begun once the timer hit _fifty-nine_, has already soaked the ground, forming muddy cesspits where firm patches of dirt used to be. In the rain others are fidgeting, either from discomfort or reasons similar to Halley, who looks as though she is trying to decide what to do once the countdown ends. She does not look up once to meet Darnius' gaze, instead honing in on something on the ground directly in her line of sight.

It is surprising to Darnius that there is a sole tribute not focused on the bloodbath at hand but the woods beyond. Brita Edison has turned her back from the Cornucopia to face the western woods. He recalls the girl's interview, talking about not having any allies because they were wary of including her in the fold. After a brief moment of hesitation, Darnius follows her example and angles his drenched body away from the Cornucopia. _I'm not going to be able to get any supplies successfully anyway_, Darnius decides, his back now fully turned from the countdown behind him. _As soon as I hear the voice, I'm going to run like hell_.

_Perhaps when this is over, I should seek out Brita_.

Immediately after the thought crosses his mind, he shakes his head. It's every tribute for themself at this point, and anyone who disagrees would be lying to themselves. Alliances are made and broken within the first sixty seconds of the Games as the desperation and instinct replace all forms of logic and reason. _So why make an ally_? Darnius has considered this since the moment he boarded the train, a question that has nagged at the back of his mind for days. _Maybe it's instinct_, Darnius thinks, pondering the philosophy of his decisions. Without weapons or supplies, he could be putting himself in a dangerous position going into the Hunger Games. _They call it that for a reason_, he recalls. In some of the earliest years, Gamemakers restricted the available food sources to exclusively what you could get from the Cornucopia and by extension, the Feast.

_But they like seeing us kill each other more these days_, Darnius knows. _The Capitol enjoys the more barbaric aspects of the arena_. _What's better than children killing each other_? While other tributes are behind him, focusing on which supplies they should fight over, Darnius' only concern is which area of the forest can yield him the best survivability? _I suppose I can keep moving if I have to_, he decides. _But there's bound to be a way to sustain myself if I just lay low and trust my gut_. It isn't out of pacifism, but rather an attempt not to die in the first minute of the Games; he has seen so many others from District Eight fall victim to their bad decisions. It's his instinct that is both the boon and the bane of his existence. _I don't want to rely on it, but it's the only reliable tool I have_, Darnius thinks.

And his instincts tell him to run, and get the as fucking far away from the Cornucopia as possible.

* * *

**Sorrel Nettleson **(**16**), **District 5 Tribute**

Sorrel also finds it a bit strange that Brita has turned away from the Cornucopia, but more worrisome still is the fact that Nyxandrea is looking straight into the arched golden maw of the Cornucopia horn. _Well, there's one positive in this_, he thinks. Brita is an obstacle to the plans he has, and it's for the better if she runs into the woods away from him and his district partner. Sorrel's been worrying all night, to the point where he had crossed the apartment in the dark and sat with his back against her door, as if he could protect Nyxandrea and the room from the oncoming shadow of death in the morning.

The sleepless night had morphed into morning, and the unease built higher and higher within his chest as the pair of them were rushed through breakfast. _And now we're here, inches away from the beginning of the Games_, Sorrel thinks dryly. Sorrel blinks back the rain out of his eyelashes, and shivers. The tremors resonate within his very bones, and Sorrel draws his jacket closer to him. _I wish this rain would let up_, he grumbles to himself. _So kind of the Gamemakers to make this ten times harder_. He blinks again irritably, watching through half-squinted eyes as the countdown winds down to _thirty-seven_.

Underneath the black military-grade jacket is an earthy blue colored nylon windbreaker, but while it has a hood attached to it, Sorrel is afraid that the sides of the hood could greatly reduce his peripheral vision. _I don't want to miss it if a Career decides to rush me_, Sorrel thinks apprehensively, eyes wandering to Castiel on his right and Alton - the District Four boy - just further down the line. It would seem that the majority of the other tributes share his sentiment, with only a few hoods visible. The immediate problem Sorrel finds with this is that if all of the tributes have their hoods up, it would be hard to distinguish who is who, although he supposes that's where the colors come into play. _Nyx is rustic pink_. Sorrel memorizes the color. _I have to run after rustic fucking pink_. He sighs, the residual fear from last night bubbling in his stomach.

His whole damned life, Sorrel has never been the type to chase after anything, or throw himself into the thick of things back in his home district. When presented with a choice, Sorrel prefers to watch. To observe. _And the Hunger Games has to go and change everything_. Though the more Sorrel thinks about it, perhaps it is not for the worst that he is forced to lay his cards down on the table and pick up a new hand with Nyxandrea at his side.

Ever since the move, he has felt isolated and alone, and so far these past few days since the surprise kiss during the parade have been some of the most exciting of his mundane life. The move had damaged his mother's psyche, and by proxy his own, changing the world from vibrant fields to the dreary slate gray of District Five. But his mother always kept her head high, with a professional attitude about her even when she had lost her career and been forced to take a position working at the hydroelectric dam. But now, being a part of the Hunger Games, Sorrel is offered all sorts of opportunities on a silver platter. _It doesn't matter if the offer has fangs and strings attached_, he decides. It was exciting enough getting to spend time observing others during training; a hobby that has translated well over to a skill, as Sorrel has quietly become privy to different knowledge regarding the other tributes over the past few days. He's observed the Careers too, on the training floor, and has a pretty solid idea on which few he needs to avoid at all costs. Sorrel recalls his confession that day, after he expressed his desire to learn a weapon. It had been right after his district partner gave her own confession that his spur-of-the-moment kiss on the chariots had stirred some feelings within her. _I remember being so damn ecstatic_… Sorrel frowns momentarily, remembering too his awkward explanation of his unrequited love. _She didn't need to know that I've felt things for her that long._

Sorrel sighs and rakes a hand through his short curly black hair, the iron wool texture slick as his fingers pass through it. He can feel his face starting to tense up in certain places as the clock ticks down further, and works his jaw to stop a full facial tic from occurring. It's by no means a medical condition, but a habit Sorrel acquired away from prying eyes as a way of taking off the mask of professionalism. _I'm not about to pull that here_, Sorrel thinks, instead choosing to focus on the situation. There are a few backpacks laid out about eighteen feet in front of him, closer to the Cornucopia, but resting against each other side by side. _If I can get there fast enough, then we can get the hell out of here while the Careers get their weapons_. He would expect nothing less than seven Careers armed to the teeth, and Sorrel does not want to make a mistake that can cost him his own life, or worse.

Nyxandrea seems to be fixated on the same backpacks, but Sorrel could be wrong. There is a glassy, unfocused look in her eyes as the countdown commences. _She's the better runner_, Sorrel knows. He's seen Nyxandrea on her morning runs occasionally, and the thought spikes jealousy in his stomach when he remembers the boy she would run with; the same jealousy he felt when Brita had arrived in their apartment seeking haven from a world without allies.

_She's the better runner, but I'm not letting her go that close to the Cornucopia_. No doubt it'll be quickly infested with a Career problem. _We get the bags, we get out and we stay alive_, Sorrel understands. It's a simple transaction, but with twenty three loose variables, the thought fills him with existential dread.

He has thirty seconds to decide, but thirty seconds isn't nearly enough time.

* * *

**Arley Harva** (**12**), **District 9 Tribute**

Thirty seconds is enough to put Arley on edge.

She has felt uneasy since standing behind the curtain last night, carrying inside her a lingering sense of primal fear that has settled like a stone in her stomach. _This morning certainly did not help_, Arley thinks, her gut convulsing with a small whimper as the rain lashes against her exposed skin. Being corralled and locked into an airtight tube did nothing for Arley but amplify her internal panic, and rising into the arena next to two of the most unpredictable tributes of the bunch had much of the same effect. Arley quietly slips the hood of her jacket over her head, her thin fingers feeling clammy and cold.

The hood works wonders in keeping the rain from making her wholly uncomfortable, though the wet hair at the nape of her neck is bothersome. In addition to that, the hood at least temporarily blocks out the visage of Edward Nelson to her right and Crescentia Monroe to her left. _A psychopath and a Career_. Whereas Edward's excitability makes Arley feel nervous about her own chances, the fact that Crescentia seems so confident and poised despite earning a _one_ is just as unsettling. _All we have to do is avoid the Careers and get out of here_.

_Then I'll be one step closer to Sissa's arms_. In truth, Arley misses her big sister's embrace. _I know volunteering for this wasn't the best reaction_, she knows. It's a thought that has been creeping into her brain ever since Arley stood on the stage last night in front of the whole watching world. _But I wouldn't have it any other way_. Bravery is as much a vice as a virtue, Arley knows. _I'm not ignorant of that_. But the thoughts that flood her mind terrify her much more than anything, with mirages of gruesome imagery beginning to form amidst the rain.

Most of the others look very uncomfortable being caught in the silent assault of the rain; either that, or they too are imagining the hundreds of ways that the next few minutes could go wrong. There is an unspoken promise that the mud will turn crimson, and it is on the dawn of this day that Arley is being forced to face the imminent realities of the situation at hand.

_The thing that scares me most isn't any Edward or Crescentia_, she thinks. _It's not being able to come home and see Sissa_. That's the whole reason she's here, right? To make good on a promise made in the spur of the moment, a promise that Arley doesn't have a solution for. _I don't have a solution, I just have more questions!_

Arley surveys the circle, turning wider to search for her allies with the hood at the edges of her vision. It is a wheat yellow color, and it reminds Arley of home. _Like they're trying to mess with me_, she decides. The dream vacation to the city of a thousand man-made stars ends here, _this_ morning, with _twenty-four_ seconds left on the timer. _I have to get through this. I have to get through this. I HAVE TO GET THROUGH THIS!_ Arley's mind is screaming now, and she wants to drop onto the floor and curl up hugging her knees, but the mines would surely put a swift and brutal end to any comforts Arley might find within herself.

Instead, she stands strong on her own, the weight of her copper crown feeling reassuring on her scalp. _The weight of the crown is heavy, and so is the burden of being a queen_, Arley recalls her friend telling her, the two playing at a game of queens and servants. _I don't have this for nothing. I'm _worth _something_. Overlooked, in District Nine, is an easy thing to become. But here, she stands out from the rest, and it brings Arley some measure of solace.

_It's always been the little things. Like popcorn_. Arley stops looking for her allies, feeling calmed now that Winston is so close by. He seems to be staring into the Cornucopia, but when Arley squints to see past the slight haze of rain, she does not like what she sees. It's like staring into the dark, salivating maw of a great golden beast. There are all manners of swords and spears and pointy things in the place of a proper set of teeth, waiting to feast on a crimson appetizer. _If I go in there, the beast is going to swallow me whole_.

Better to find some sort of supplies on the ground, no matter how sparse the pickings look. Most tributes are looking to do the same, eyes darting back and forth to the scattered backpacks and bags on the ground. It is an inaudible competition of will to judge who is going to snatch the bag and who is going to back away. _But if the Careers need their weapons, we can get out of here before they raid the Cornucopia_, Arley ponders. _They_ alone will venture into the belly of the beast and remove its teeth; instruments to orchestrate the deaths of the hapless.

Reaping grain is one thing. A common occurrence back home, a systematic culling of the fields by hands like those belonging to Arley's father. It is a trade of the good and honest. But reaping _tributes_ is another. It is a war that has been waged against Arley and her fellow tributes; a war that she is no longer sure she is capable of surviving. War is dirty and grim, like the tales her school teachers like to regale her with. War wiped out District Thirteen. It has wiped out hundreds of tributes and corrupted hundreds of minds from the chaste path of innocence.

But innocence is always the first casualty of war.

And it will not be the last.

* * *

**Hela Mistlyre **(**18**), **District 2 Tribute**

Hela is still trying to wrap her head around the events that unfolded last night on the balcony. _A distraction, and nothing more_. She had forced herself to believe that ever since the two broke apart and Siren had _conveniently_ led the rest of the Careers back into the living room. She had forced herself to believe it that night, underneath the impossibly soft bed sheets - sheets that Hela had dreamt of her father having in his house in the Victor's Village - in contrast to the hard woolen blankets she and her sister were provided as wards of the academy. And Hela forces herself to believe it now, keeping her eyes focused on the massive golden prize laid out before her. She had looked for Asher when the launch tubes were rising up out of the earth, catching a glimpse of his fiery red hair far to her left. A stretch of seven tributes separates them, with Crescentia in the middle, all turned toward the Cornucopia and the backpacks and supplies strewn across the muddy field. But when the rain had started, Hela had stopped looking.

_He's just a distraction_. _It isn't real love... not what you feel_. After all, how could she have fallen for Asher in such a small time frame? Hela shakes her head. _It doesn't matter. I'm not a lover, I'm a fighter_, Hela tells herself. But there is a small voice in the back of her head that wonders if she could be both. _It's desperation. And there is no room for weakness. Love is a weakness._

_Fuck love_. _Love _had never gotten her anywhere in life, and it had hardly gotten Hela here. A life spent with weaponry as a pacifier and trainers in the stead of loving parents has all culminated in this paramount moment. _This is where we make screaming little bitches die_, Hela tells herself, trying to psyche herself up as she shifts her weight onto her left foot to alleviate the stiffness that has grown heavy in her right. It doesn't matter that there is rain. Hela's eyes wander up to the countdown, the eagerness to dive headfirst into the fray and test out her skills making her hands shake in anticipation. _Less than twenty seconds_.

The rain feels cool and sharp on her skin, but Hela makes no move to wipe it off nor to draw her hood, as the girl from Nine standing next to Crescentia has done. Instead she has embraced it, letting the rain strip her nerves away, the rhythmic flow of the downpour feeling calming, as though the motion can alleviate the tense muscles Hela has acquired since the kiss transpired. It is certainly making the tributes gathered on their pedestals look quite miserable in the bleak atmosphere, but the excitement that courses through her veins is enough to combat the cold rains. And besides, once they pick apart the links of the competition, those who survive the ordeal can scamper off into the forest and shelter under the leafy canopy of the trees..

Hela opens her eyes again and surveys the area, evening out the weight distribution on her feet so that she is comfortable and ready to spring into action. Alton is a few spaces over, his jaw set with a hardened, steely look as he watches the timer inch down toward _fifteen seconds_. His gaze trails listlessly over to meet Hela's, and she nods discreetly. Hela is sandwiched between Mercedes to the right and Ruben to the left, both two of the threats they had briefly discussed last night. _See? Bigger fish to fry than thinking about Asher right now_. If all goes to plan, they will have the Cornucopia secured and have enough Careers on the field to thin the herd a little.

Alton seems to understand the gesture, squaring his shoulders and prematurely tensing as though he is ready to run off the pedestals and make a mad sprint for the Cornucopia. _It's all a matter of how fast we can get our hands on some weapons_, Hela muses. From her position, she can see past a small stack of crates and into the Cornucopia, which seems to have a small, flat wall just where the horn begins to taper and curve upward. Mounted on the wall is a variety of weapons, and Hela sets her eyes on one of the spears. Next to it lies a finely woven net, with a weighted edge. _It's almost like the gods heard me calling_, she decides with a predatory grin. _I'm going to get my hands on those weapons_.

And next to that still is a morningstar, the weapon she watched Alton lift so carefully off the rack. _The bludgeoning damage he inflicted on some of those dummies_… another slow grin spreads on Hela's face. _This is going to be too easy_, she thinks. Hela's dreams of glory have been filling her head since the moment she stepped foot off the train and into the Capitol, and she's absolutely _itching_ to get started.

Clearly Castiel feels the same way, with his eyes zeroed in on the girl a few pedestals over. _Looks like he's ready to jump off and throttle her right now_, Hela smirks. _I'm going to have to ask Castiel why he hates the Sevens so much_. Her own district partner is on the other end of the arrangement, she knows, having seen him as she flicked her eyes away from Asher. She recalls a conversation she had with Moses, perched up high upon their chariot. _Do I scare you, Moses?_ Hela had asked her district partner, trying to intimidate him. '_You don't scare me, no,'_ he had told her. '_You boil it down to the wire, and you're eighteen years old, just like me. You have one shot to go home to whatever glorious life you live, and I've got one shot too.'_

One single shot to earn the respect Hela deserves, to finally get her father's attention. _And unlike Finch, I'm not going to be another nameless shit who goes home in a fancy coffin_.

* * *

**Reynolds Pelliarch** (**16**), **District 12 Tribute**

The tension that has grown among the tributes is thick enough to be cut by a knife, an all-consuming dread that has twisted Reynolds' stomach into knots. Everything about his current situation sucks. The reality of the Hunger Games pressing hard down on his shoulders, the wicked cold rain that is falling in a steady pattern from the sky, and the muted but incessant clicking sound from the pedestal next to his own. The countdown, now nearing an even and precarious _ten seconds_, is silent. The anxious and controlled breathing of the tributes is masked by the rain falling upon the downtrodden earth. _But I can still hear the damn clicking noise_.

Reynolds has tried to tune it out, ignoring the boy next to his left as he flicks open and shuts his lighter with a dark look on his face. _Axel worries me a little_, Reynolds thinks. _He's dangerous_. In fact, Reynolds has had some atrocious luck with the way the tributes have been arranged, with the girl from Four, Siren, to his immediate right side. Asher stands just next to Siren, both Reynolds and the boy from Eleven easily dwarfing the Career girl in the middle. _I never realized how tall Asher is_, Reynolds remarks to himself. _Only time I ever got too close to him was the interviews last night._ Yet on the other side of Axel is Moses, another Career, and the third in the immediate proximity. _May the odds be ever in your favor_, Reynolds recalls with a scoff. This morning, the odds have fallen stacked against him. Four threats, two to each side, and the nearest backpack is three yards away.

_Three yards isn't enough time before Siren or Axel jogs over and snaps my neck_, Reynolds thinks morosely, staring at the small stretch of ground in front of him. If things had been different, he would have jumped off by now, activating the land mines and blowing his own body to smithereens. _I'd thought about it for years_, Reynolds reflects. Years and years of pain had led him to make the decision to volunteer, and it can't be erased by a single night and some pretty words. But healing is a long and arduous process, Reynolds knows, drawing his jacket closer to his sides. The fabric is black, much like the very suit Reynolds volunteered in, except this time - for the first time, perhaps - there are no fresh marks etched into his skin for the fabric to rub against. _Healing_. Underneath the black jacket, he wears a goldenrod colored windbreaker, a color that he would have never chosen to wear back in Twelve. _Not that I had a choice here either, _Reynolds surmises_, but I quite like the hue_.

His father's watch rests on his arm, a heavy-handed reminder of the tragedies of the past, of long nights spent wondering why it could not have been him that the Peacekeepers chose to die, rather than his brother. Reynolds, quite simply, had been resigned to death. Staring at the ground in front of him, he can feel the old familiar urges, as if the mines embedded beneath the surface are calling out to him.

But he is no longer resigned to that fate. _I may die today_, Reynolds thinks, the words eliciting a strange mixture of elation and bitter resentment in his stomach. _I may die today, but it will not be by my own hands, nor my own machinations._ If Reynolds is to die, he will die knowing that he had been capable of fixing himself all along. _It will no longer be an escape_, he believes, and with his entire heart he is okay with that. Peace accords have been made with the grim reaper, and Reynolds will stray from the path of life when it is his time, knowing full and well that he will be okay once he sinks underneath the veil.

It may be raining on his parade, but as Reynolds lifts a liberated gaze toward the countdown, he finally understands that he does not quite care anymore. The numbers cast a hazy neon glow around them, broken by the rain and the constant changing of the digits, but the end is in sight.

_5_

Reynolds looks directly across the width of the circle, catching Tangaria's gaze. He gives her a smile, a token of reassurance and gratitude. He has not jumped, but he will instead take the plunge with twenty three other poor souls once the countdown reaches zero.

_4_

There is no going back when the numbers come to an end. Nothing that Reynolds can take back or change freely. From this point onward, it is destiny, and Reynolds will allow it to mandate the verdict on his life, whether or not he will be trudging through the woods with his allies or soaring up above the earth on wings of freedom.

_3_

Reynolds' body tenses, the muscles in his legs tightening in unison with the grand majority of the others, his eyes becoming fixated in a trance on the backpack in front of him, slate gray in color and already covered in mud splatters.

_2_

His arms feel numb and leaden from the rain, but Reynolds does not move to alleviate the ache. He will step off his plate to live and fight rather than to die.

_1_

A gong rings out from somewhere in the sky, the reverberations of metal against metal louder than even the parade fanfare. Static bursts from the heavens as if there is a command being issued forth from the gods as the countdown comes to an end, filling Reynolds' gut with a surge of trepidation. _It's destiny_.

_0_

The disembodied voice of the Master of Ceremonies fills the air, and Reynolds remembers the eight words that the man had told him just last night. _May the odds be ever in your favor_. Reynolds takes a deep breath, pushing his wet hair out of his eyes and honing in on the golden Cornucopia.

"Let the twenty-ninth annual Hunger Games begin!" announces Mr. Valentine, his voice like peals of thunder amidst the rain that beats upon the tributes.

And all within the fraction of that second, it has begun.

* * *

**CHAPTER 20**

**SHOWTIME**

* * *

**Edward Nelson** (**12**), **District 3 Tribute**

The shrill ringing of the gong is still reverberating in his ears by the time Edward has stepped off his raised plate, and he almost trips as his feet hit the ground. Though the grass is wet and marshy from the rain, Edward feels a thrill rise in his chest. _It's real. Real arena ground_. The spongy ground feels great beneath his feet, and a smile makes its way to Edward's face as delusions of grandeur fill his head. _It's going to be _my _turf_. At all angles around Edward except forward, the other tributes have begun to step off their pedestals at varying speeds, a few remaining to stand frozen in either fear or superstition that the mines might still be active.

Superstition doesn't bother Edward - in fact, it never has - and instead of watching a few of the tributes scamper off for the protection of the woods, Edward squares his shoulders and pivots on his heel to face the beautiful golden horn. He wishes he could stand here and drink in the sight and all of its glory, but there are pressing matters at hand, and Edward isn't going to be one to dawdle and twiddle his thumbs as everyone else rushes the only cache of supplies in the arena. A dark shape dashes nimbly past him, racing toward the Cornucopia, and Edward decides to chase it. He quickly outstretches his arms, leaping forward to dig his skinny fingers into someone's pant leg.

"Fuck _off_!" Shouts an angered voice in his ears as the two of them trip over onto the muddy ground. The action is jarring on Edward's left elbow, but he does not let go, instead trying desperately to hinder the other tribute from getting to the Cornucopia before he does. Suddenly, a sharp pain ignites on the top of his head as a boot connects with his skull, and Edward howls, releasing his grip on the tribute.

He drags himself out of the mud and chases after the tribute, his stride only broken by the momentary realization that it is the six-foot-tall boy from District Ten that he tackled into the mud. _I'll take care of him and everyone can see what a Nelson is capable of_. Edward angrily pushes his short wavy hair out of his eyes. It is still stained a dark red color from the temporary dye the night before, and Edward feels an immense pride at having sat on the stage looking like the Master of Ceremonies. _Even if Brita did diss me like that_. It's almost comical to see her running for the treeline, throwing up her hood to cover her auburn hair. Her jacket is an indian red, and not too far off from her actual hair color. _She'll die without any allies or supplies_, Edward muses. The thought is disturbingly pleasant to him, and Edward remembers hours spent watching the Games back at home. _Brita doesn't stand a chance_.

In front of him, the shape of Ruben Bolt has gained a head start, however, and Edward frees himself from the mud, stumbling after his quarry with his hands curled into fists. Ruben disappears into the golden maw of the Cornucopia, and Edward can no longer see him past the blur of raindrops and the shadowy entrance. _Like a beast in his lair_, Edward remarks internally, ignoring the pandemonium around him, ignoring the Careers shouting to each other and the myriad of other tributes scouring the field for supplies. _I have a target to hunt_, he thinks, jogging over to the edge of the Cornucopia.

It's hard to hear anything next to the horn, since the rain drumming on its metallic surface drowns out all other noise, but Edward creeps around a couple small crates. He takes a furtive glance behind him, glad that most of the Careers are caught up dealing with other tributes, and crouches, keeping low to the ground as he follows the curve of the horn. It's cold against his back, and he silently draws an espresso-colored hood up around his head, the nylon material making him blend in better with the shadows.

Ruben is in the very back of the horn, rummaging around. The other boy slings a backpack over his shoulder, checking over his shoulder every couple of seconds while he stuffs a couple supplies in the open compartment of the backpack. There is a shout from outside and a loud thud against the outside of the Cornucopia that makes Ruben stand immediately to attention. He fumbles for a moment to yank a sword off the back wall of weaponry and turns around, brandishing it at the shadows. Edward spies a knife on top of one of the crates nearby and throws himself at it, a burst of adrenaline surging inside him. His fingers close around the handle of the hunting knife, and Edward makes a triumphant crowing noise in the back of his throat.

_I got the knife!_ He knows that the horn may be restrictive on how well Ruben can maneuver his sword, so Edward slinks forward, watching as Ruben's eyes widen. The other boy puts two hands on the hilt of the sword and Edward lunges forward, slashing the knife at Ruben's thigh. A gasp escapes Ruben's lips, and Edward is sure that the boy is bleeding. He tries to back up a little as Ruben brings the sword down, the tip making a horrible grating noise against the roof of the Cornucopia, but instead Edward's shoulder catches on a crate.

One minute, he is fine. The next, lightning has shot through his body and he is consciously aware of screaming, animalistic noises tearing from his throat. Ruben brings the sword down again, and Edward lifts his arm as if he can shield himself from the blow. It is the second hit that begins to dull his consciousness, a splitting pain shooting through his nerves. It takes a split second to realize his forearm has been messily removed, and then someone is screaming, and Edward knows it's him. Ruben steps forward, and Edward tries to crawl backwards, whimpering as he uses what is left of his arm to help him crawl out of the Cornucopia.

Ruben is saying something, but between the rain drumming on the roof of the Cornucopia and the blood rushing to his ears as Edward crawls his way out, it is lost. Edward lifts his eyes to catch sight of the chaos around him, seeing two Careers sprint toward them with knives in hand. Then he feels his body convulse violently as he feels what must be Ruben's sword enter the small of his back, skewering him into the ground. And then it's yanked back out, and he has become numb to the excruciating pain, and his eyes begin to droop. _This wasn't supposed to be how it went!_ Edward's mind is screaming, but it is futile.

He closes his eyelids and slips away, letting the endless dark claim him as its own.

* * *

**Castiel Bomber** (**18**), **District 1 Tribute**

_Well, shit_, Castiel thinks as the gong goes off and all hell breaks loose.

The muddy stretch between himself and the Cornucopia has become a scene of pandemonium, with tributes running for supplies and backpacks. Some are already fighting, using their bare fists to ward the predators away from their precious prizes. But Castiel has his mind on a different kind of prize, and she's running straight for the Cornucopia. He rolls his eyes and steps off the raised pedestal, making sure to clear the base of the plate with a wide berth in case the mines are faulty. _Happened one year, could happen again_, Castiel grimaces, blinking rain out of his eyes as he chases after his prize.

_It's been two fucking years in the making, babe,_ Castiel thinks, feeling the weight of his boyfriend's bracelet around his wrist as he jogs after her, the marshy ground sucking at his feet. _Two years is going to make them pay_. After all, he owes that much to Charming. _Avenging my boyfriend is the entire reason I volunteered in the first place, right?_ Castiel has spent too many nights trapped inside his own head, watching the pair from Seven slaughter his boyfriend. _Over and over, and over again_. Desensitizing himself hadn't worked, and neither did his early morning runs, trying to let the bracelet's movement calm him. It is a cold fire that burns inside Castiel's gut, one that grows and consumes each time he sees Winston and Sebastiana.

_And fires must be fed_.

A force almost slams him off his feet, and Castiel narrowly avoids face-planting into the muddy ground. He gets up quickly and pivots on his foot, turning on his assailant. Castiel narrows his eyes at the dark-skinned boy from Five. A blue tarp that matches the color of the boy's windbreaker is tied neatly in a string, sitting between the two of them. _Presumably what he was trying to get_. "You want it?" He asks, faking a jovial tone with the other boy. A look of distrust flashes across Sorrel's face, but he darts forward and grabs the tarp.

_Not so fast, asshole_, Castiel thinks, taking a stride toward Sorrel. He lifts a leg in the air and kicks Sorrel in the chin with his boot, sending the boy flying backward. Castiel catches the tarp in mid-air and flips Sorrel off. "My tarp," he announces. _We need all the supplies we can get, right?_ He surveys the field, looking for Sebastiana, who he has lost in the fray. Moses is engaged in some sort of fistfight with the fifteen-year-old girl from Ten, and Crescentia is struggling with Sorrel's district partner over a bag. Castiel watches Sorrel pick himself up, holding his head, and has to suppress a laugh as the Five boy staggers over to help out his district partner. _Always has to save the day. Crescentia can hold her own_, Castiel reassures himself, shaking his head as he spots Sebastiana securing a small backpack over by the crates that litter the mouth of the Cornucopia.

_There she is_. Castiel clutches the tarp under one arm and sprints across the uneven ground toward her. _I don't have a weapon_, he realizes, watching the boy from Three creep into the Cornucopia. _Where's defense?_ He wonders angrily, recalling the plan that he and the other Careers had laid out last night. It would seem like everyone is able to raid the Cornucopia except he and his allies. _Better make this quick, then_, he decides, watching Hela punch Mercedes in the nose out of his peripheral.

Sebastiana is tantalizingly close, and Castiel slows his jog, marching up to her. He launches the tarp at the small of her back, the tightly packed object causing her to arch her back in pain. She turns around slowly, and Castiel is delighted to see a primal sort of panic in her eyes.

"Time's up, Seven," he gloats, lips curling into a sneer. She produces a knife from somewhere, but Castiel grabs her wrists and twists hard on her arm. There is a small splintering sound, and Sebastiana cries out in pain. She wiggles out of his grasp and tries to go back for the backpack she had been rummaging through.

She never makes it to the bag, however, as Castiel grabs her roughly and throws her against the side of the Cornucopia. Sebastiana doesn't have time to react, as Castiel grabs her neck in the crook of his arm, cutting off the air to her windpipe. "You understand what you've done," he growls in a low voice, watching her blink and gulp like an overturned fish when he loosens his grip. He shakes his head and suddenly slams her again into the side of the Cornucopia, using one of his fists to drive more pressure against her face.

Sebastiana is howling and whimpering in pain now, and though the golden ridges of the horn are slick with rain, they are now slick with blood. It drips down from her nose, and he can see early telltale signs of bruising on her forehead. She weakly tries to escape Castiel's grasp, but he tightens it, slamming her again into the side of the golden horn. Again, and again. Over and over, as he had watched them kill Charms. _It's what they deserve!_ His mind instructs him as Sebastiana's head makes a sickening crunch against the Cornucopia.

He stops for a moment to catch his breath, and her head lolls forward, chin resting on his hand. Castiel can't tell if she's still breathing or not, so he takes both hands to the side of her head and cracks her neck. He's breathing hard now, and drops her limp body onto the mud. The rain washes away the blood on his hands, but Castiel can't shake the feeling of disgust in his stomach as he sees the red rivulets drip down the side of the Cornucopia.

There is no cannon for the little girl. Castiel takes the bag she had acquired and grimaces at the dark stain on the fabric. _Pretty sure that isn't mud_. He retrieves the tarp, too, just in time to see Ruben skewer the District Three boy on the end of his sword. _Fuck!_ Castiel doesn't know how many swords were inside the Cornucopia, but the fact that the Ten boy has one doesn't sit well with him. Castiel stoops to snatch the knife Sebastiana dropped - she clearly won't need it anymore - and ignores the sounds of shouting all around him.

"Hey, asshole!" He shouts at Ruben, watching Hela twist Mercedes' arm behind her back. The girl from Six goes into the mud, and Hela springs off of her, making a beeline for the Cornucopia. Now that Castiel has Ruben's attention, at least for the moment, maybe Hela can get some weapons and start disposing of the other tributes.

_Gotta give her credit, she knows exactly what to do_, Castiel muses as Ruben takes a menacing step forward, as if he is capable of dispatching a Career. "Think you can take all this?" Castiel asks boastfully, taunting the boy. He gets no response, and instead shrugs theatrically. "Why don't we find out, cowboy?" Ruben lifts his sword, and swings it at Castiel, who ducks out of the way easily, feeling adrenaline pump into his blood. _Couple of days of training isn't going to make this guy an all-star swordsman._

There is a dark shape in the rain that slips out of the Cornucopia, and Castiel grins as the figure hoists a spear above her head.

* * *

**Siren Thalassa **(**17**), **District 4 Tribute**

_I'm going to survive. I'm going to survive. I'll do what I have to do to survive_. It's been the mantra that has fueled Siren's entire life, from the shipyards and cool blue waters to the slate gray of the underground training center. It is mirrored in the ethereal spotlight on stage, the blackberry purple accents of her arena outfit, and the rich green leaves of the forested haze separated from the ring of pedestals by a stretch of sodden grasses.

_Sometimes you have to do things you aren't proud of to survive another day._ The countdown had a deafening effect on her; each silent number like the screech of scraping metal, each second blurring the lines between the hard realities and her darkest nightmares. Siren can feel uncertainty like liquid fire in her veins, head whipping back and forth across the pandemonium erupting across the field. To her right, Castiel is kicking another tribute in the jaw with a tactical boot, and Asher and Axel are scrapping in the mud over a backpack. Her ally digs his heels into the uneven earth and delivers a sharp elbow to Axel's sternum, who promptly lands a stinging blow to Asher's temple. To her left, Moses is fistfighting with the girl from Ten - Evanna - who Siren remembers being forcibly removed from the training center.

_What the hell am _I _supposed to do?_ Siren wonders, recalling vaguely the plan from last night. She and Moses are supposed to hold the Cornucopia supplies away from any potential challengers. _Fat lot of luck we have,_ she thinks in frustration as she glimpses Evanna's district partner leaving the Cornucopia. A couple of yards in front of her, a boy is crouched in the mud, only identifiable by the goldenrod _12_ emblazoned on the back of his black jacket.

_Shit,_ Siren thinks, using her hands to slick her hair out of her eyes. Once voluminous, it is now soaked and irritatingly clings to her skin. _Rain isn't the same as the stormy seas_, she thinks. But it doesn't matter. Siren is a _Career_, and she has to perform on par with the best of them. _Fake it until you make it_. Siren takes a breath and starts jogging over to the crouched boy, the world seeming to slow down with each breath she takes. The ground is soft and spongy, but she doesn't lose her footing, closing the distance between the two of them in a matter of seconds.

Reynolds has no time to blink before she is upon him, one arm wrapped around his face, the other wrestling the backpack from his grip. She can feel his shaky breathing, and their hearts beat fast and irregular, a unison of adrenaline that pumps into her blood. She manages to wrench the backpack free of his grip, and Reynolds tries to stand up to his full height, trying to throw Siren off of his back. Her arm slips down to cover his mouth, and he bites her in desperation, making her scream in his ear. The straps of the backpack are dangling in midair one second, and the next they are wrapped around his throat.

Reynolds goes crashing down into the mud, throwing her off him. Despite how soft the ground has become, the impact still knocks all of the air out of her, and Siren groans, picking herself up. _Finish the job, Siren. _It's a dog-eat-dog world in the Hunger Games, and she will come out on top or she'll be damned. Reynolds is trying to catch his breath, getting to his feet again when she secures the backpack, twisting it with her hands to put pressure on his neck. He thrashes, but she pulls the fabric tight, hearing little tearing noises even over the monotonous drumming of the rain. Reynolds claws at the tight strap around his neck, but Siren digs her knee into his back, pulling the bag tighter. His breathing becomes labored and strained, and for once Siren is glad for the rain, since the hot tears running down her cheeks are hidden in it.

After a minute of futile thrashing, Reynolds stops breathing, and Siren does too, letting the gravity of what she's done wash over her. She stands up, disgusted, and tries to take the backpack from the neck of Reynolds' corpse. _He's dead_. The body rolls over as she pulls the backpack off, and with a strangled cry, she sees a bitter smile on Reynolds' face, as if he has finally accepted the reign of death over his body. _He's dead because you killed him._

_It's almost laughable_, Siren thinks, feeling her mind go numb. _That's just how easy it is to take a life_… her hands are shaking as she stares hollowly at the marks around Reynolds' bruised throat. Siren tries to ignore the strained, bittersweet smile on his face, instead wiping the back of her hand against her mouth. The bitter taste of Siren's own blood fills her mouth, and smears across her cheek from the corner of her mouth only to be washed away by the rain.

_This feels wrong!_ Her head screams. In all her time after the Reapings imagining the manners of macabre situations she might find herself in, Siren had never prepared herself for watching the life bleed out of someone's eyes. Axel sprints past, glaring daggers in her peripheral vision with Asher hot on his tail, but the only think Siren's mind can focus on is how abruptly she stole a life. She feels a hand on her shoulder and shouts, punching her would-be assailant hard. Moses grunts, and her eyes widen in horror. "I'm sorry!" she shouts, as if Moses is going to reprimand her for killing the boy from Twelve. Instead he stares down at the boy with a quiet expression on his face. "Evie got away," is the only thing he tells her, the two glancing at each other. Siren suddenly feels immense guilt in the pit of her stomach. _Moses didn't kill anyone, but I did…_

"The Cornucopia," Moses says, snapping her out of a daze. She lifts her eyes to see Ruben, Hela and Castiel form an uneasy triangle. "Shall we?"

Siren nods, and she hands Moses the backpack she had killed Reynolds with. He seems to understand the gesture, and slings it over his back as they sprint toward the gaping golden entrance to the Cornucopia.

_Running from corpses._ Running from death, as far and fast as her sea legs can carry her.

* * *

**Mariela Polaris **(**15**), **District 12 Tribute**

Mariela is running from death too, as she narrowly avoids stumbling headfirst into the girl from District Eight, who gives her a staunch glare and produces a knife from her backpack. Mariela yelps and scrambles backward, watching Halley as the younger girl runs to the left across the field. Halley glances behind her as if to make sure Mariela and others aren't following before throwing up a red ochre colored hood and disappearing behind the treeline.

The clash of steel brings Mariela back to her immediate surroundings, and she drops to the ground in fear of being attacked, the mud squelching under her feet and knees. "Get up, Mari!" shouts a familiar voice, and she feels a strong tugging at her wrist. Mariela staggers to her feet and comes face-to-face with Tangaria, whose light brown eyes are wide and shrouded with fear. Her ally from Eleven hands Mariela a small brown bag and slings a backpack over her own shoulder. It is small, smaller than most of the bags closer to the actual Cornucopia, but based on the brutal deaths of Edward and Sebastiana, whose corpses lie entrenched in the muddy ground, Mariela wouldn't be willing to risk her life to get another one.

_Not with Tangaria's limp either_. It wasn't something that proved an issue during training, although it had certainly earned her ally a fair share of intrigued looks from the trainers manning some of the stations. But here, in the arena, it is a liability that frightens Mariela a great deal. Tangaria presses a hand against the small of her back, sidestepping Alton as he charges out of the Cornucopia toward them. Alton has a heavy-looking morningstar in hand and a grim facial expression to match. The duo ducks under an outstretched swing of his weapon, but when Mariela casts a furtive look back at the boy, she sees the teal blue _4_ on the back of his jacket instead of his face. _Good, he's preoccupied._ "Where's Reynolds?" Mariela shouts above the din of rain and nearby steel, a weapon clanging loudly off the side of the golden horn.

The two of them wheel about, looking for their ally, and a scream tears from Tangaria's lips as she sees him. "_No!_" shouts Tangaria, her voice raw and throaty as she screams. Mariela turns in time to see Siren kneeling on top of their ally, the straps of a backpack twisted around his throat. There is no cannon to indicate his passing, but the finite way that the Career girl stands up seems rather conclusive. Mariela's vision blurs with tears, her heart breaking inside. _Not Reynolds!_ Her ally, her partner, the boy she had latched onto as one of the few pieces of home she had left despite only knowing him in _this_ life, is dead.

Her hand flies up to the locket encircled around her neck, as if the love of those she holds dear can give her strength to survive. _For them first, and now for Reynolds_. Tangaria is shaking, likely a combination of the cold rain and shock at seeing their ally being strangled to death; Mariela is certainly in that very same boat. _But there are too many loose variables. We can mourn later_, she thinks, spurring into action. Besides, it's best to mourn alone, once all is quiet; something Mariela learnt from seeing her big sister June pray and mourn alike for the worries and woes of the Polaris family. Finding work to keep them fed seems trivial and inconsequential compared to the livelihood thrust upon Mariela now. Problems in District Twelve were solved with a good meal and a blind eye turned upon the ongoings of its citizens.

Problems in the arena will have to be solved the hard way. "We have to get away!" shouts Mariela as the steel clamors behind her. She looks up to glimpse Reynolds' killer and the dark-skinned Career from District Two enter the Cornucopia, the latter re-emerging immediately to hand off a gladius to Castiel. All Mariela can remember about Castiel was his goofy interview, but the boy's face looks murderous as he evades a rogue swing from Ruben's sword. _Are all the Careers hell-bent on taking us out?_

Tangaria notices the desperation rising in Mariela's voice, and turns away, eyes red, to spy Castiel advancing quickly toward them. Mariela begins to hurry along beside the parallel curvature of the golden horn, the pair making headway out of the battlefield. Tangaria is limping, a strained expression on her face as she tries to keep up with the younger girl's pace. Castiel is gripping the gladius tight in his hand, but stops following them as soon as he reaches the curved end of the Cornucopia. "We'll find you fuckers!" He cries out against the rain, before hastily retreating and rejoining the bloodbath.

"Let's get the hell out of here," Tangaria grunts, clutching her ribcage as if it is causing her pain to breathe from exertion. Mariela couldn't agree more, and instead silently offers an arm to Tangaria. She tiredly accepts, and Mariela helps her stand up as the two of them trudge into the forest, all threats eliminated as the Careers continue their senseless slaughter behind. A shriek pierces the air, raising the hairs on the back of Mariela's neck, and once under the canopy, both girls throw up the hoods of their colored windbreakers.

Mariela is shaking now, once the unfolded events finally sucker punch her in the face, and all she wants to do is sit down on the sodden ground and cry. But Tangaria refuses to let her, instead keeping a firm grip on Mariela's shoulder. "You didn't leave me behind," the girl says softly, steering the pair of them deeper into the greenery. "I won't leave you behind either, Mari."

The fact that Reynolds is not trudging along with them hangs, a heavy, unanswered silence between them. Mariela knows with a sense of dread in her stomach that they will shield the pain quietly until Reynolds' face appears in the sky, glowing a serene blue.

For Reynolds, death has come calling, to fell him and drag him into the great beyond.

But Mariela can see the bleakness of the incoming horizon; knowing that Reynolds will not be the first of them to die. The only question that remains now is one of survival.

And Mariela has always been rather good at keeping herself alive.

* * *

**Ruben Bolt** (**18**), **District 10 Tribute**

Killing Edward gave him an indescribable rush. It isn't one of vengeful bloodthirstiness, but a deep-seated feeling of complacency. _Cornered dogs do fight well_, he thinks with a savage grin, nudging Edward's corpse with his boot. He crouches down quickly to pick up the boy's knife before moving on, wanting to get away from the bloodbath as fast as possible. Being the first one into the Cornucopia had been a blessing; securing a longsword was an easy enough task.

In fact, he feels no remorse for killing Edward. Watching blood stain the boy's dyed hair a darker red was satisfying in a very, _very_ morbid way, but by driving the sword into the boy as he was backing out of the Cornucopia, Ruben knows he has made a show for the sponsors. _The boy who took down the Careers_, he thinks, a fleeting mirage of glory filling his head. _They'll be rooting for me now that they know I can kill_.

But as Ruben exits, he realizes perhaps this wasn't going to be as much of a cake walk as he originally thought. "Hey, asshole!" calls a voice full of vitriol, garnering Ruben's attention. He pivots on his heel, coming face-to-face with Castiel. The blond boy's mouth is open and mirthful, but his eyes are filled with a dark kind of hatred that makes Ruben shiver. The disrespect that was intended for him makes Ruben's fists clench around the hilt of the sword. _I'd describe myself as morally ambiguous, but you piss me off and you're dead, brother_.

Ruben takes a menacing step forward, and Castiel continues speaking. "Think you can take all this?" Castiel asks boastfully, taunting him. _The only response he's going to get is being impaled in the dick,_ Ruben thinks angrily. Castiel shrugs theatrically. "Why don't we find out, cowboy?"

_Fucking bastard!_ Ruben thinks angrily, lifting his sword, and swinging it at Castiel, who ducks out of the way easily, laughing with the abandon of a madman. An icy shock registers in Ruben's shoulder, followed by a searing pain as he feels metal enter his skin. He bellows, stumbling forward with an overhanded swipe of his blade at Castiel, twisting his body to see Hela standing behind him, gripping a bloodied spear.

He takes a steadying breath as Castiel melts away from view, chasing a pair of girls from the outer districts. Hela grins jubilantly at him, a frosty smile on her face. Her eyes are blazing and cruel, and Ruben narrows his own as he lunges at the girl. Hela's threats last night were made on the eve of a rainy crimson dawn, and Ruben will be damned if he lets her best him in a fight. _Calling everyone cannon fodder_, Ruben thinks, mind awhirl. _I'll cheer when her cannon goes off. _

In truth, Ruben will cheer when any cannon goes off, so long as it is not his. _Every death means I get closer to escaping this pit_, he knows. Her spear comes hurtling toward him, a strike he narrowly deflects with his sword, using the blade to push Hela's weapon out of the way. She rolls with the deflection, crouching on the ground and thrusting the spear up at his lower abdomen. Ruben shouts and falls backward, swinging his sword in a loose, silvery arc that glances off the side of the Cornucopia instead.

Hela's laugh is a cold, clear sound, and she advances, her stride unbroken. She lifts the spear above her head and narrows her eye, the rain plastering her dark hair to her face. Ruben's own hair feels wet and heavy on top of his head, but he has no time to spare to fulfill the urge to brush it out of his eyes. Hela is advancing slowly, circling around him with a predatory gait.

"Going to disembowel me?" Ruben asks, leering at his opponent.

"You have no idea," she says coolly, jabbing the spear at his chin. Ruben dodges it, but the attack is immediately followed up by a kick to the chest that sends him sprawling into the side of the Cornucopia. The metal is hard and unforgiving on his back, and Ruben groans in pain, rolling off the metal and away from Hela. He stumbles over a corpse half-submerged in mud, and his eyes go wide seeing the fractured skull, blood coagulating on the back of her head. The neck is twisted at an awkward angle, grossly reminding Ruben of his boss brutally ordering the execution of a rabid dog. He had made Ruben snap its neck, clean and efficient.

_That's all this world could ever be_, he thinks. _But dead is dead, and some of us are meant to survive_. He regains footing and swings the sword at Hela, going on the offense. Though she has the ranged weapon, the wide swings of his sword offer her no ground for advancement, and Hela hisses through her teeth at him. Ruben grimaces in anger; anger at his situation, at the rain, at Hela. Anger for being stolen from whatever life he had scraped up under the shadowy wings of crime and exacerbated by the white hot pain lancing through his shoulder with each step. His sword strokes become more aggressive, clanging off Hela's spear any time she tries to raise it and get a shot in. He forces her back up against the side of the Cornucopia, and he watches as she braces her foot against the slick surface and vaults off of it.

The next thing Ruben knows, he's in pain, and Hela's body makes an awkward noise against the ground. Ruben's shoulder, which she had kicked in the maneuver, is gushing blood, thick rivers of red dripping off of his arm. He can feel warmth spread to his face as well, where she must have nicked him with her spear. Ruben shakes his head and presses his heel against her forearm where she lies in the mud. Hela's eyes are furious, and he can detect a sense of embarrassment behind them. He spits, a thick trail of saliva hitting her in the face, and she roars in fury, beating at his legs and thrashing beneath him.

Ruben gives her a cruel grin before releasing the pressure off her forearm, kicking the spear out of her reach. The woods are calling his name, and if he's lucky, he can have a head start before Hela and her wolfish companion are upon him.

Ruben isn't going to let himself be cornered anymore. _I told the Capitol I would be the apex predator_, he thinks, the thought becoming a mantra as he charges off into the wilderness. _Let them watch me_.

* * *

**Mercedes Benson **(**16**), **District 6 Tribute**

Beneath a vaulted sky, the dark frontier beneath beckons forth twenty-one wretched souls to answer the call of carnage. Mercedes Benson's head is pounding, blood rushing to her ears as she escapes Hela's grasp. Her nose is bleeding into the mud, the red rivulets that drip down her chin inciting a chant of fear within her bones.

Hela had tackled Mercedes face-first into the mud once the gong rang out, and Mercedes had spent the better part of the bloodbath fight trying to wrestle Hela off her. Hela had twisted an arm behind her back and elbowed her in the throat - which Mercedes is massaging now - before suddenly getting off her to go take care of bigger threats. Ruben and Hela are engaging in a fight with each other near the entrance of the Cornucopia. She scans around for the other Careers, and sees a cluster of them at the entrance to the Cornucopia. There is a shout from a few yards away as Axel kicks in the District Eleven boy's shin, causing the redhead to face plant into the mud. The other boy lashes out and trips Axel as well, before climbing on top of her district partner and wrapping his hands around Axel's throat.

Mercedes' eyes widen in fright, and she sprints toward them, her feet feeling the impact against an uneven and slippery ground. She stoops to snag the strap of a small bag in a close range to the pedestals and swings it at the back of Asher's head, full force. The boy cries out in shock and releases his grip on Axel, who kicks him in the groin.

Mercedes helps Axel up, and the pair race to steal a backpack from the young District Nine girl; Axel kicks her in the clavicle with his boot, sending her sprawling into the mud. "Let's get out of here," Axel declares, and Mercedes arches an eyebrow at not receiving thanks for rescuing him. Mercedes' mind is running a mile a minute, and she keeps turning around to make sure no one is in the immediate vicinity, paranoia getting the best of her. "Asher's gone," she says, nervousness saturating her voice.

"Great observation, Benson," Axel says dryly, fumbling with the clasp of his backpack to retrieve a hunting knife. He pulls it out of the sheath and shoulders the pack. "Now would be a good time for you to have a knife," he says, and Mercedes' eyes snap from the waiting forests to the stretch behind them. _Training with them doesn't mean I can kill with one_, Mercedes thinks, trying to find a knife in her own pack.

Asher and Alton have appeared, carrying weapons. Asher has a knife, and Alton has a morningstar; both sport menacing smiles. "Fuck the both of you!" Axel shouts, flipping them off. "Scurry along now," he says defiantly, a hostile edge in his voice. _More hostile than usual_. Mercedes barely has time to roll her eyes at his flippant attitude when the duo of Careers attack them. Asher lunges at Axel, and Alton swings his heavy mace-like weapon for her. The first blow is easy enough to sidestep; Mercedes dances out of the way, her pack dangling from one arm.

The second blow, however, catches her full in the side of the head, and she crumples to the ground on top of her supplies. There is a brief, blinding pain and a sickening auditory crunch as Alton slams his spiked morningstar into the side of her head. The world becomes a tumultuous river, rapids that twist and turn and roar, a deafening noise in the side of her head.

Mercedes feebly reaches a hand up to feel the side of her head and screams in agony, convulsing as she draws away her fingers. She can see the dripping scarlet on her fingers, and knows she's been hit pretty badly.

Mercedes is beginning to feel very lightheaded, a concussed sensation that feels numbing, as if a topical layer of lidocaine has been slathered onto the side of her head. There is a dull ache, a persistent throbbing pain, and Mercedes can feel her consciousness slipping away. The shouting and screaming all around her sounds muted, as if she is underwater and they are speaking in a different dialect, but Mercedes can make out Axel's tone of voice from somewhere above her. She blearily fights to see, blinking hard, but a film has descended upon her eyes.

"Ack… Axe… Axel!" she mumbles, cut off by a violent scream as she shifts positions and the rain thunders down upon the side of her head. Mercedes is curled into fetal position now, unable to focus on anything but the slow loss of her conscious mind. She braces herself for a second strike to come from Alton, but feels none.

"See you in hell when this is all over," a voice says aggressively. Mercedes feels herself being rolled over, her bag messily retrieved from underneath her where she has pressed it into the mud. She reaches a weak arm out to try and keep the bag, but it is futile once she feels the rain hit the side of her head again. _What the hell is happening to me?_ She wonders as starbursts form behind her eyelids. Each droplet of rain is like a stabbing knife against her skull, and Mercedes can feel trickles of blood coalesce on her face.

Her fingers go slack as darkness begins to tug at the edges of her vision, and Mercedes screams at the sky, letting the rain hit her face, her mouth, her eyes. Everything stings and burns, and Mercedes wants nothing more than for this hell to end.

Her wishes are granted by the mercy alone, as a writhing Mercedes can feel a shadow stand above her. The mud is cool against her back, and she struggles to open her eyes, blinking back rain. _Looks like… looks like he's come to finish… f...finish the job_, Mercedes thinks, her mind a collective numbness. Alton raises his morningstar high above his head, and Mercedes closes her eyes, awaiting her execution.

There is impact, and then there is nothing but oblivion.

* * *

**Alton Kersey **(**18**), **District 4 Tribute**

There is a dark feeling that stirs in his gut when he slams the morningstar into the side of the Six girl's head, watching her crumple to the ground and writhe in agony. Asher and Axel are still duking it out, both bleeding from wounds that Alton didn't see created. Axel kicks at Asher's legs, but the latter seems to understand the dance Axel is performing, taking a quick step back with eyes blazing full of hatred that almost match the intensity of his hair.

_One enemy down, one to go, and then we can move on_, Alton thinks, closing in on Axel. Hela injured Ruben, though it may have been surface level, before he escaped into the wilderness. _Not going to make that mistake twice_. There have been no cannons, as typically the Gamemakers send in hovercraft to remove the bodies once the bloodbath has concluded, but Alton sees three other bodies prone on the ground apart from Mercedes.

Axel's knife catches Asher by surprise, thrust straight for the throat, and Asher is narrowly able to avoid getting stabbed in the neck. Alton takes a step forward, swinging his weapon at the boy. A squelch from his boots in the mud must have alerted Axel, who drops low and sweeps Alton's feet out from underneath him. Alton lands hard, his weapon landing less than two feet away, just within arm's length. Asher lets out a yell, and Alton is back on his feet lightning fast to see Axel running over to Mercedes. _Odd, he never struck me as the caring type_, Alton recalls, chasing Axel as the boy wrestles Mercedes' bag from her shoulder. _What a dick_, Alton thinks. He's breathing hard now, from racing across the field several times, as he hears Mercedes mumble her district partner's name as the snake in question rises from the grass and sprints off outside the ring of pedestals. Alton watches him go for a minute, knowing it would be fruitless to chase after him, and hopes that it isn't Axel's knife that cuts his throat in the middle of the night.

_It better not be Asher's, either_, Alton thinks wryly as he whips around to face his ally. Asher gestures to Mercedes, and shrugs. "Unfinished business," he seems to suggest, and Alton grimaces, lifting the morningstar. He puts his weight behind the force of the weapon, but still flinches as her head breaks open, red splatters everywhere.

He wants to throw up, and his head is spinning. _I should have offered for defense with Moses_, he thinks. Alton has never had qualms about killing, but as he scrapes a chunk of Mercedes off the spike of his morningstar, he feels queasy. Hela jogs over to the pair of them, a spear clutched in one hand and a net she must have retrieved from the Cornucopia in the other. "Sick," she remarks, staring down at the corpse with an unemotive expression. Alton can tell she's been pissed off by something by the way her fists are shaking "Who's left?"

_She even thinks like a machine_, Alton muses, wondering what led Hela to be so unfazed by the grittiest aspects of the bloodbath. _I never expected I'd be scraping brain matter off my weapons_, Alton thinks, recalling days spent training against dummies. The translation to a living, breathing person is much the same, but the consequential aftermath is much darker.

"Whatever's left of that Seven-Nine alliance," Asher offers, "and the Fives," he says, nodding his head toward the middle of the semicircle of pedestals, where Alton sees Crescentia fistfighting the girl from Five as her district partner jumps into the fight. _Oh no_.

"Why don't you two take care of the Sevens and Nines," Alton suggests, "and I'll go get an extra weapon so that Crescentia and I can fight off the Fives." His allies nod quickly in consent, sharing a glance before turning their backs to go chase down the stragglers. _Castiel wants to take care of the Sevens_, Alton reminds himself. _But we need to take out anyone we can right now. No time for deliberation._

He jogs toward the gleaming curvature of the horn, ducking inside the lip of it to scrounge up a weapon for Crescentia. Moses and Siren stand guard at the entrance, with Moses holding a sword and Siren a spear. "Where's Castiel?" he asks, feelings of concern and betrayal bringing the taste of acidic bile to the back of his throat.

"Chasing someone off, I think," Siren says quickly, her hair soaking and plastered to her neck. Moses nods in agreement, and Alton smiles at him, his heart soaring that the boy he has kindled a romance with is okay. _Good things don't last forever_, his father's voice whispers cruelly into his ear. _It is the Hunger Games after all_. On cue, a dishevelled Castiel ducks into the horn and enters, and Alton shakes the brooding thoughts away from his head and takes Castiel's gladius. The boy objects before seeing Crescentia struggling. His eyes go wide and he starts forward as if to run forth and lend her a hand, but Moses stops him. "Let Alton handle it," he suggests. Moses gives Alton a serious nod, swathed inside the shadows of the horn.

Despite how badly Alton wants to drop his bloodstained weapon and pull Moses tight, he does not. There will be time to discuss the nightmarish death of Mercedes later, once Alton makes sure Crescentia has a viable way to defend herself. _We have to look after each other_, he recalls Siren saying to him once everyone else had filed out of their apartment with somber farewells and promises of glory on the morrow. _All of us do, even Hela and Castiel_.

Alton emerges slowly from the Cornucopia, realizing how much he enjoyed the brief respite from the rain while it lasted, and charges across the stretch of grass to the aid of his ally. _We have to look after each other, _Alton knows, at least until the promises of allegiance break and shatter.

Unless throwing his faith in the success of all of the variables brings gloom and misfortune upon him. Then, it would be all too easy to wind up just as dead as everyone else.

* * *

**Nyxandrea Nexus **(**16**), **District 5 Tribute**

Nyx screams through gritted teeth as the Career girl from One aggressively slams her head against the side of a raised pedestal. Nyx blinks tiny swimming stars out of her vision and swings a fist at the other girl, connecting with her jaw. There is a sharp, stinging pain at the back of Nyx's head, and she shakily stands up from the ground, clenching her fists angrily. _I'm convinced this girl isn't actually trained like the rest of them_, Nyx thinks bitterly as another round of cat-and-mouse fighting continues between the two of them, earning Nyx a kick to the hand that makes her yell in surprise.

_She's got the endurance, and muscle too though,_ Nyx notices. _But her fighting seems rather clumsy_. Nyx herself isn't one to talk, having very little experience in physical fighting except the occasional squabble with her younger brother, Solander, who must be waiting back home in agony as he watches his sister and her poor fighting techniques. The thought of her family crowding into the living room to watch her galvanizes Nyx into action, taking the offense against Crescentia, who is most certainly caught by surprise.

Over the course of their fight, only a few tributes have crossed paths, most luckily giving them a wide berth. The boy from District Eight, two pedestals to Nyx's left, turned tail and ran into the woods as fast as he could. Not long after, his district partner Halley followed, running off into the same direction with a backpack and a sour expression. _Supplies would be great right about now_, Nyx thinks bitterly, the backpack lying discarded outside of the ring of launch plates. She is conscious of her breathing becoming labored as she fights; and can feel her face flushing even in the cool rain, over such a stupid little thing. _Not like the cameras can pick up how out of breath you are_, she reminds herself. _Everyone used to poke fun at me for being spoiled_, Nyx thinks. _I'll show them_. It takes a lot of grit to survive the Games, and being out of breath from a fight doesn't exactly translate to 'crowd favorite.' In truth, the cameras from the prior night were not terrible, but having her every waking moment in this godforsaken forest _filmed_ is going to be an issue for her. _Any time Sorrel and I show affection, everyone back home will see that too._

The thought of losing any semblance of privacy fills her with apprehension; a distraction that causes Nyx to lose her focus. Crescentia punches Nyx in the abdomen, causing her to double over in pain. Crescentia is about to go in for another strike when she's suddenly yanked back by another force. She looks up to see her district partner, Sorrel, gripping Crescentia's shoulders. He awkwardly shoves the Career girl out of the way. "Nyx, let's get out of here!" he yells to her, and her disgust for being rescued like some damsel in distress is immediately replaced with a spike of pure adrenaline. Alton had been tailing Sorrel with a weapon in each hand, and only breaks his stride for a moment to hand his ally a weapon. _This isn't over_, Crescentia's eyes seem to say. Nyx is surprised by the sudden ferocity in the girl, but there isn't time to dwell on it.

"Cres!" Alton shouts, handing a gladius to a disgruntled Crescentia. The two Careers begin to chase after Nyx and Sorrel, the latter of whom is clutching a blue tarp in the crook of his arm.

"RUN!" Nyx shouts, gesturing wildly to Sorrel and clutching the backpack tight against her chest. Her heart is hammering hard against her ribcage as she and Sorrel hasten away from the Cornucopia. The ground is uneven beneath her feet, marshy in some areas and solid in others, with rocks seemingly placed with the sole intention of tripping her. _Except running in the mornings with Dean definitely helped me prepare for this_, Nyx thinks to herself, reminiscing about how competitive things could get between her and Dean. _I may be a sore loser_, she admits to herself, _but at least I know how to beat someone in a footrace. _It still amazes Nyx at how ridiculously accepting Dean was of her nature; offering solace in being both kind and down to earth, helping to anchor a flighty Nyx. The only difference now is that in the stead of her close friend, it is enigmatic Sorrel that races beside her for the treeline.

One moment feels like an eternity, the sound of four sets of boots upon the spongy ground and the light thunderous roar of the rain beating down upon a thousand leaves filling her ears. When Nyx runs, everything is simultaneously slow and incredible, wondersome and fast-paced. But right now, the only thing burning in her mind is the urge to escape any wrath these Careers might harbor. She can _feel_ the presence of Crescentia and Alton behind them, and exchanges a fearful look with Sorrel as they take the plunge into the wilderness.

A tree separates the two of them, and the undergrowth seems immediately thick. Nyx's spatial awareness helps her duck and dodge any low-hanging branches or spiny-looking bushes, but a grunt from Sorrel seems to say otherwise for him. There is a sound of splintering wood that has Nyx looking over her shoulder to see Alton club down one of the thorny bushes. Crescentia is picking up speed, but the District Four boy has begun to slow down, either from exhaustion or the unforgiving foliage.

"Let them go, Cres!" he shouts out, startling Nyx. Her pursuer seems to slow down, calling something back to Alton, and then it is just Nyx and Sorrel running in the woods. _Keep going, keep going, keep going_, Nyx thinks, heart racing. They whip past all manner of gnarled trees with thick branches and bright leaves, small brush covering the ground, and Nyx barely manages to land on her feet after jumping over a fallen log.

Strong arms catch her, and she stops running, heart beating in her throat now. "That was… that was close," Sorrel admits.

"They almost got us," she nods. _But why did they turn back?_ Nyx wonders. _No telling how far into the wilderness we are either_, she thinks, absorbing their surroundings.

Careers or not, Nyx won't allow herself to get comfortable. _Nowhere is safe._

* * *

**Winston Thorn** (**18**), **District 7 Tribute**

With one member down and the bloodbath clearing out, it is imperative that Winston shepherds the rest of his allies to safety. It would seem that the majority of other tributes are having the same mentality to flee away, as he sees other tributes raid the field and run off. He and Arley have been together since the beginning, since Arley was to his right; the pair sidestepped the fight between Crescentia and the District Five girl, instead focusing on trying to find supplies.

But seeing Bash get slammed against the side of the Cornucopia until she was bleeding and incoherent did the trick for Winston, sucker-punching whatever fight he had left straight out of his body. _Bash…_ he remembers his first impression of her, besides the ten-year-old he had seen two years ago when grabbing brunch at the Ridgewood Restaurant with his girlfriend Bloom. She had gotten excitable and kissed the escort on live television. On the train rides and throughout his entire experience in the Capitol, his district partner had been nothing short of sweet and reassuring, as though her very presence could bring alive the comfort of home.

Now, of course, she is dead. Winston can feel his face flush as he tries to deny it, dodging the boy from Five, who darts in front of him and Arley to take a tarp from in front of them. And suddenly, with no weapons and supplies, Winston feels _helpless_. It isn't an emotion he is used to feeling, and one that makes him feel rather choked up. The feeling reminds him of Bloom, and how powerless he felt to stop her anguish from seeing her brother die.

When Winston dies, will Bloom comfort his younger sister? _Oh, the irony…_ Winston groans. From somewhere on the other side of the field, Padds sprints over, the only one clutching a backpack. He breathlessly motions southward, erring on the left, and through the haze of rain, Winston thinks he can see the glimmer of a river under the watery gray sun. "We haven't gotten supplies yet!" He objects, with Arley nodding her head fiercely. Padds shakes his head.

"We've got company," he grunts as the three run past the raised pedestals, all rigged up and ready to explode just moments before. _Only other person to run this way was Axel_, Winston recalls. Ruben had run off a little further north. _Could the three of us take either one of them?_ Winston finds himself wondering. Both scored arbitrarily higher than him, and he saw Ruben kill the obnoxious boy from Three within the opening minute of the bloodbath.

Winston stares over his shoulder to see Hela and Asher running after them, grim expressions on their faces. _Well, shit_, he thinks, blinking hard. He picks up speed as fast as possible, leading the charge into the unknown with his allies behind him. Arley gasps as she is tripped up by running on the uneven ground, a rock causing her to fall hard onto one ankle with a scream. His ally struggles to rise, but she is not fast enough.

Winston looks on in horror as Hela throws a net, her hand moving in a perfect arc. The heavy net, weighed down with leaded edges, lands on Arley, who shrieks in terror as it takes her down. He watches as her face slams into the ground. Padds is shouting in anger, lunging forward as if he is planning to attack Hela and Asher. Asher is already quick on the ground, restraining Arley underneath the net, but Hela stares at them impassively, her head cocked to the side. Then, without warning, the Career lifts her arm and launches the spear straight at Winston. He leaps back in surprise, trying to evade it, but the spear ends up grazing his inner calf. Winston shouts in surprise at the sudden pain, and buckles, bracing his hand on the earth before hastily standing again to rejoin Padds.

"We have to go!" Padds shouts, and they exchange a solitary glance before staggering to retreat into the wilderness, leaving Arley behind at the mercy of the Careers. _All pretense is gone_, Winston thinks, looking distrustfully at his ally as they run deep into the overgrown forest. _We lost both of them already_, he thinks solemnly. Arley's tortured screams follow them into the woods - which seems too _easy_ of an arena to Winston - and are cut short and abrupt from somewhere behind them. Winston can see Padds tensing up beside him, eyes darting back and forth as if he expects Hela or Asher to appear in the brush in front of them.

Guilt lances through Winston's stomach, and he wants to sit down and never get back up, until Hela's spear can find his aching heart instead. "We just _left_ her, Padds!" he says, voice laden with anguish. _What would my family think? That I have no integrity? What about Bloom, whose little brother died in the Games? _

His partner looks down at him, frowning. "We had to, Winston! You and I both know that," he says, but Winston disagrees. _It was his recklessness that got us into this mess to begin with!_ The only response he gives Padds is a sad shake of the head.

Winston forges onward, gritting his teeth as his wound burns with pain, the calf injury a jagged mess from where Hela's spear tore a hole in his trouser leg.

If it is the last thing he does, Winston will get vengeance for the girls.

* * *

**Asher 'Wolfchild' Foster **(**17**), **District 11 Tribute**

He and Hela stand above their prize, the little District Nine girl ensnared in Hela's weighted net. Any awkward tension he had experienced from the aftermath of the night's events have been erased with the pure thrill of adrenaline, the two brought together again in a union of death. There is an unspoken command shared between the two as Hela throws her spear at the girl's allies, two older looking boys that Asher barely remembers from training. _Must not have done anything too exceptional_, he thinks.

The only important thing is that Castiel doesn't like District Seven, and anything Castiel wants shouldn't be given to him on a silver platter. Hela's spear grazes the Seven boy's leg, not enough to fully incapacitate him, which causes Hela to swear under her breath. The two boys are practically tripping over each other to reach the forest first, but instead of following them, Hela calmly walks over to her spear and yanks it out of the soaked earth. The rain has begun to lighten up, a drizzle that seems suspiciously consistent with the resolution of the morning's events.

Asher is sweating profusely from exertion, something he realizes even despite the rain, and is suddenly grateful for whatever bullshit weather the Gamemakers had thrown their way. _Dirtier, but more impressive, I suppose_. Hela strides over to where he crouches, a knee pinning the frail girl to the earth. "What are we going to do about her?" Asher asks, glancing around to make sure no one is around. Alton and Crescentia, alongside District Five, are nowhere to be seen, and Asher can make out three figures crowding the entrance to the Cornucopia.

"Why don't we give the Capitol a show?" Hela asks. Asher can detect a little rage in her voice, and notices her cheeks are flushed a slight pink. She doesn't seem injured, though she seems to be putting pressure on one leg over the other. _Minor injury, maybe?_ If Asher had to guess, Hela had been humiliated by being responsible for a grand total of zero of the deaths that had occurred. _Four, if my memory is accurate_.

Asher nods silently and the pair wriggles the net off of Arley, who tries to push Asher off weakly. He clucks his tongue in annoyance and instead grabs her by the arms, using one hand to hold them behind her back and the other to hold a knife to her throat.

"Be my guest, Hela," Asher says, ignoring how fucked up it makes him feel at his core. _The Hunger Games aren't about niceties. It's all a show, like antagonizing the Peacekeepers back at home_. The thought puts a wolfish grin on his face, and he bares his canines for the camera, knowing that _someone_ in the Capitol is eating the appearance up with a silver spoon. _And if not, at least it'll piss off the white dogs at home_.

Asher barely has time to lean to the side as Hela kicks their charge in the face, her black military boot connecting roughly with the girl's jaw. She lets out a tortured scream that causes Hela to kick her again, and again, blood splattering down her face and onto Asher's hands. It is surprisingly warm, and despite Asher being more than familiar with the feel of blood between his knuckles, something about the situational context makes it different.

There is an uneasy war in the pit of his stomach, one that feels savagely pleased with the feeling versus another voice that pleads for the Wolfchild to be merciful. Arley gasps, a choking sound that disgusts Asher as bubbles of blood and spit drip down the corners of her mouth. The rain has all but stopped now, and Hela stops her quiet tirade to stand back and take a deep breath. _She never gets mad or frustrated_, Asher thinks. When Hela is pissed, it is a raw and lethal calm, reflected in every mechanical movement of her body but her eyes.

She picks up her spear again and gives Asher a curt nod. The knife he holds at his side comes up to Arley's throat again, and her tortured ramblings are cut short as Asher brutally drags the sharp end of his knife across her throat. Arley's head lolls against his shoulder, and he pushes off the body, watching her crumple unceremoniously to the ground. _Don't let the madness overcome you_, he recalls his gang ally Faruq telling him years ago as Asher had dragged himself, broken and bleeding from the fields after the jackals had stained their rust orange coats red with his blood. _Use it to survive in this goddamn insane world_.

Asher rises from his knees. Standing up always helps bolster his confidence. _Nothing can break me. Jackals, whippings, death._ Nothing has been able to stand in Asher's way except events out of his control, like the vehement sun on his skin or the icy moon of Hela's beautiful face. He nods to Hela, the two standing a comfortable distance from each other. Asher raises his brow and looks up to the rumbling in the sky. It is not another storm, but instead the sounding of the cannons, signaling the end of the bloodbath.

_BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!_

The noises are like peals of thunder, cracking across the sky; an explosive staccato that rumbles across the world and sends tremors through his bones. At the end of the fifth cannon, Crescentia and Alton stumble out of the forest, looking weary. _Five cannons mean they didn't catch Sorrel or Nyxandrea_, Asher thinks, staring down at the thin corpse in front of him.

There is a whipping of wind above the four of them as a hovercraft appears from above the trees, a streak of shiny grayish-white metal in the sky that seems to descend from the heavens on the field opposite them, picking up the body with the number _12_ emblazoned on the back of the jacket. From this distance, Asher is both incapable of telling which one it is, and too exhausted to care. When the night falls, the faces projected into the sky will tell him.

Moses and Siren are slowly carrying the body of the boy from District Three a good distance from the Cornucopia so that the hovercraft can collect it, retreating immediately as if they are offering a gift to some kind of mechanical silver god.

The four Careers make the short journey across the downtrodden field in silence, heading toward the rest of their alliance. Asher hears the rhythmic whirring of the hovercraft behind them as it retrieves Arley's body.

With the removal of her corpse, his guilt vanishes. _If you do not want to be the victim…_

_You simply must become the monster_.

* * *

**EULOGIES: **

* * *

**24th: Edward Nelson (12), District 3 Male (**_**Submitted by DrOcten**_**). Killed by Ruben Bolt via dismemberment and a sword in the back. Edward was a pretty unique character concept, as I hadn't seen too many Hunger Games fanatics outside of the Career districts, wannabe Careers and serial killers. Edward was none of those things; rather he was just a kid with something he enjoyed. I do think I let it blind him a little too often, and it became rather trying for people like Brita to interact with him. I did enjoy writing this crazy kid, and I will miss him - RIP.**

**23rd: Sebastiana Ridgewood (12), District 7 Female (**_**Submitted by Professor R.J Lupin1**_**). Killed by Castiel Bomber via a smashed head and twisted neck. Bash was a fun one for me, since she had some nuances of her personality that seemed very mature at times, and still felt more unburdened than some of the others, though she had her moments. She was a sweet kid, and didn't deserve to get killed so brutally. Lupin, sorry one of your kids killed one of the others, but with Castiel's vendetta, it might have just been predestined to happen. I did enjoy getting to string her along the Capitol experience, and she'll be missed - RIP.**

**22nd: Reynolds Pelliarch (16), District 12 Male (**_**Submitted**_ _**by Paradigm of Writing**_**). Killed by Siren Thalassa via strangulation with a rope. Reynolds… he was a tough one for me to write. I found exploring his inner demons to be rather challenging as a writer, and felt as though writing Reynolds took my words into a rather dark place. I did enjoy the process of getting to explore inside his head and understand him, and I loved getting to have him start to heal, even if it wasn't immediate. He was definitely cut short, and I'm going to miss him. He's in a better place now, and it wasn't through his own machinations **\- **RIP.**

**21st: Mercedes Benson (16), District 6 Female (**'_**Submitted' by foxfox12**_**). Killed by Alton Kersey via skull bashed in by a morningstar. Mercedes had quite the power struggle with Axel at some times in this story. She had come from a broken atmosphere in her life, and I think hers could have been a journey of realizing she can be strong on her own. She died rather brutally, but hopefully it offered a little surprise since we did have a fair amount of predictable deaths - RIP.**

**20th: Arley Harva (12), District 9 Female (**_**Submitted by SetFiresJust2WatchThemBurn**_**). Killed by Asher Foster via throat slit by a knife. Arley was a sweetheart too, and just like Bash, I couldn't see her going anywhere further than here. I enjoyed getting to write her naivete and unwavering faith in her situation. In the end, we can only have a single Victor and Arley was destined to take a nap in the dirt - RIP.**

* * *

**ALLIANCES: **

* * *

_**Career Pack**_**: Castiel (D1M), Crescentia (D1F), Moses (D2M), Hela (D2F), Alton (D4M), Siren (D4F), 'Wolfchild' (D11M)**

_**Angsty Teen Romance**_**: Sorrel (D5M), 'Nyx' (D5F)**

_**The Beans Are Dead**_**: Winston (D7M), 'Padds' (D9M)**

_**Shooketh**_**: Tangaria (D11F), Mariela (D12F)**

_**Loners**_**: Brita (D3F), Axel (D6M), Darnius (D8M), Halley (D8F), Ruben (D10M), 'Evie' (D10F)**

* * *

**Author's Note****: Well, fuck. Here we are, off to the races for good. I want to just say, I know that this is like, the world's slowest SYOT, so my apologies for taking months and months to get to this point. Writing just gets really hard sometimes, and I tend to just sit here, with tons and tons of inspiration but absolutely zero way to make it happen. I also want to apologize for how uneven and choppy my bloodbath felt. **

**I think the further it dragged on, the worse it got in both pacing and how lazy I began to felt despite the need to push an update. Needless to say, I'm not proud of this chapter, but eh. Writing action sequences is definitely something I'm rusty on, so I don't really have an excuse to be honest. Here's to hoping it gets better, I guess. **

**Also, the blog has been updated with a lot of new content, including arena gear, a map, and a sponsor list that is in the works, so thanks to Eugene for that! It will be updated regularly with new information whenever she gets around to it, but do make sure to drop by and give it a look! The link is on my profile.**

**With all that out of the way, I'll hopefully have the next chapter out soon and fingers crossed it'll have better flow / action than this one. Hope everyone is staying safe and healthy, and that no one runs out of toilet paper. :P**

**Have a great day/night everyone! :)**


	21. Chapter 21: Faces in the Sky

_I'm a rolling thunder, a pouring rain_

_I'm comin' on like a hurricane_

_My lightning's flashing across the sky_

_You're only young but you're gonna die_

-AC/DC, Hells Bells

* * *

**CHAPTER 21**

**FACES IN THE SKY **

**DAY / NIGHT ONE**

* * *

**Evanna Lynn **(**15**), **District 10 Tribute**

**10:56 AM**

Her legs are burning, as though a fierce fire has taken ahold of her muscles and propelled her forward. _Run. Away, away, away, RUN!_ Her mind is shouting at her, a hollow ringing in her ears that has been constant since she tore away from fighting the boy Career from District Two, snagging a small backpack with her free hand. Fear takes her actions into overdrive as she thunders through the forest, ducking away from a treacherous branch that hangs too low for her to escape. The whip-thin end of the branch catches her in the face, and Evanna stumbles slightly, raising her fingers to feel the red wetness blossoming on her cheek.

_It's only a little scratch_, she reminds herself, trying simultaneously to ignore the purplish bruises that have taken root across her skin from the fight, a slightly darker shade than the dusty lavender color of her windbreaker. Taking a brief moment to absorb her surroundings, Evanna comes to the startling realization that she has _no idea_ which way the Cornucopia is. It stopped raining some time ago, but her chin-length white hair is still soaking wet, strands of it clinging to the sides of her face. Evanna brushes it away in annoyance, scanning her surroundings to make sure the Career boy has not followed her.

Evanna pulls the backpack strap of her arm, the fabric being a dull brown color, and unzips it, leaning against a tree to rummage inside. The snapping of a twig causes her to jolt, making Evanna snap to attention, her eyes distrustfully peering into the thick undergrowth. _This place already sucks_, she thinks disdainfully. _Why get us accustomed to luxury and then drop us off in a shithole like this?_

Inside the bag, Evanna finds a small green canister of what she assumes is some kind of bug spray - great, there will be _insects_ here - a fairly large tarp, a spile, a knife, and a package of bandages. _Absolutely no food, or anything to sustain myself with_, she thinks angrily, the red haze creeping into the corners of her vision. At least she was able to hone her knowledge of plants in the Training Center; _that_ is at least a skill which might keep her going. Evanna's head begins to clear for a moment, and she breathes deeply to calm herself. _I didn't exactly stop and look yet, but there has to be some kinds of edible plants around here_. _Or insects_, she reminds herself, though having a canister of repellent doesn't exactly scream "edible" _anything_.

She begins zipping up her backpack, but when the zipper gets caught on the fabric, Evie bites back a scream as she feels her eye begin to tic. She slams her fist into the rough bark of a tree, as if taking it out on the tree will solve her current predicament. Evie's about to challenge the leafy behemoth to round two when a thunderous noise catches her off balance, replacing the ringing in her ears with the booming of a cannon.

_BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!_

The noise is ear-splitting, and Evie claps her hands over her ears, counting the vibrations through her skull as they are fired: _One, two, three, four, five_. The cannonfire ceases and Evie shakily lowers her hands. _Only five deaths_, she thinks, furrowing her brows. In past years, the death toll has been much higher. Five years ago, when Evanna's sister - _barely_ Reaping eligible - had been murdered in the bloodbath, she remembered hearing seven cannons fire. The only two years that had topped her sister's Games were the Twentieth Games, and the First Quarter Quell, which Evanna remembers had a total of nine cannons each.

_Means there's a lot of competition left_, she thinks, scowling. But there is an immeasurable sort of pride that sits in her chest at having escaped from the bloodbath with minor injuries, unlike her ill-fated sister, who had taken an arrow through the skull just moments before escaping to safety. _Mom and Dad won't lose their other daughter_, Evanna vows. _Whether they really care or not, I'm coming home_.

She zips up her bag, the metal zipper gliding as smooth as butter, and slings it across her shoulder. Evanna keeps walking, this time at a slower pace, keeping her eyes alert to the undergrowth. _However big this place is, I've got plenty of time to see it all_, she thinks begrudgingly.

Time blends onward, and the forest begins to look like a uniform blanked of massive, gnarled trees and thick undergrowth that she has to fight through to get anywhere. A few bug bites have risen on her hands and neck, and Evanna scratches at them, bathing in the temporary release from the itching. _Looks like I'll need that bug repellent for sure_, she notes as she pushes through more undergrowth, surprised to see the light of the sun dappling the foliage from under the canopy of trees. _I must be getting close to a clearing_, Evanna thinks. _I just hope it's not the edge of the arena_, she contemplates. She recalls, to a limited extent, years where Gamemakers would use traps to push tributes away from the edge.

_Kind of a sucky way to die, after walking so far_. But Evanna decides to push on, eventually bursting out of the woods and into a large clearing. She puts her hands on her knees, breathing heavily, and watches her surroundings carefully for any signs of a forcefield or a Gamemaker trap. When she's satisfied that the area is clear, apart from a massive tree in the center of the clearing, Evanna steps forward, grateful to feel the warmth of the sun on her neck, even if it is a weak warmth. _Anything helps after all that rain_, she muses.

Upon reaching the tree, she notices it's a bit strange how cleanly cut the circumference of the clearing is, the thick brush and smaller trees ending in almost a uniform curve all around the massive tree at the center. Something feels off, but she isn't sure what's putting her on edge. _Maybe they just forgot to smooth it all out_. Evanna smirks at the thought, hoping that it is a failure on the behalf of the Gamemakers and not some detail she should be paying heed to.

Evanna finds a spot near the tree, where a decent-sized rock rests in the sun, and sets her backpack on top of it, fishing her tarp out from the depths of the bag. It must be around noon by now, but it might help to set up the tarp in case it rains again. _I should be far away enough in case the Careers decide to go hunting_. _There's a hundred other places they could be going_.

There is a slight rustling in the woods which grows louder around Evanna. It makes her feel jumpy and on edge, especially after morbid thoughts of the Careers, and she pulls the hunting knife from her hip where it was tucked into her pants. The noise grows louder, accompanied by a muttered curse word and the sound of splintering wood. Evanna stills her breathing and backs up against the tree, one hand braced on the deep ridges of the bark in case she needs to climb it to escape. There is a strange thrumming vibration when her back touches the surface of the tree, one which makes Evie feel immediate revulsion. She shivers in disgust, peeling herself off from the tree.

The other tribute finally emerges from the thick undergrowth surrounding the clearing, his face flushed red from exertion. She doesn't recognize him initially, since she paid little attention to the colors that other tributes sported during the bloodbath. _And I'm sure as hell not going to ask him politely to turn around so I can see his district number_, Evie thinks, clenching her fist around the hilt of the knife. The zipper on his military-grade jacket is a cider orange color, as is the nylon windbreaker underneath. He appears to be sweating, and his shoulders seem to fall forward - from either exhaustion or bad posture is anyone's guess - but there is a repellent glimmer in his eyes that concerns Evie.

_He doesn't have any visible weapons_, she notes, taking a step forward, her boot sinking into the soft forest floor. The boy's eyes widen and he backs up, hastily picking up the broken branch that must have caused the noise she heard earlier. It is undoubtedly from a younger tree, with jagged light green filaments protruding from the end where it has been broken, and it is flexible. _Might sting, but it's not going to break anything_, Evie thinks, a devilish grin spreading across her face. The boy takes another step backward, back into the undergrowth.

Evie digs her heel into the ground, ready to sprint at the other tribute. "Scared?" she taunts him, her first words since before being launched into the arena feeling dry on her tongue.

"You're a bit headstrong for someone so thin," the boy retorts, gesturing with the broken branch. Evie flicks her eyes self-consciously to her skinny wrists where they extend from the sleeves. _Not my fault I grew up in District-fucking-Ten_, she thinks angrily, the red haze filling the space behind her eyes.

"I'm the one with the knife, asshole," she says irately. "Get out of here before everyone else has to hear a sixth cannon."

The boy backs up further, giving her one last glance before he turns and sprints back into the woods, the number _08_ barely visible on the back of his jacket.

Once she's sure he is gone, Evanna turns her attention back to the tarp, fastening one two corners to the tree and tucking one underneath the rock, which she can barely lift enough. She takes a step back, proud of her impromptu shelter. It'll be enough to keep the rain off of her, but the rock isn't big enough to hide her completely. _I'll need to stay vigilant, that's for sure_.

Evanna also knows she'll need to monitor the cut on her face, since an infection could get out of hand quickly in a place where medical care is unavailable, but instead she decides to focus on the bug repellent, so that she doesn't get eaten alive by any mosquitoes or the like while she sleeps.

She shakes the canister of repellent, drawing a shaky circle around her tarp and the rock it is fastened to. The repellent comes out in a foamy white color when it is sprayed upon the grass, but dissolves quickly, leaving nothing but the strong smell of citronella and insecticide. _Weird_. It's not the strangest part of her experience in the arena thus far, but definitely one of the most questionable. Back home in District Ten, she simply dealt with whatever insects the livestock attracted with a swat from the palm of her hand.

Moments later, there is a silent whoosh by her ear, and Evanna is delighted to see a small silver parachute, the dusty lavender canister attached making her heart soar. It is an oblong shape, as gifts from sponsors have historically come in plentiful shapes and sizes depending on the fruits they bear inside. _I hope it's a weapon_, Evie thinks, fingers working to open the clasp. Inside, she finds something slightly disappointing in comparison, but the sourdough loaf - shaped like a shepherd's cane - smells plenty like home, bringing a smile to her face.

Evanna lifts her eyes to what little sky she can see in the clearing, and smiles broadly for the screens to pick up on, as if to thank her sponsor.

_If violence against the District Eight boy earned me bread, what would killing him have earned me?_

* * *

**Moses Finch **(**18**), **District 2 Tribute**

**2:25 PM**

The Cornucopia has been oddly silent all afternoon, with half of his allies feeling more than a little cold and distant. Moses sighs, raking a hand through his coarse hair, and bends down to stack another crate inside the massive golden structure. Castiel had decided to move as many supplies as possible into the gargantuan horn in case the rain came back; at the moment, the majority of his alliance have taken advantage of the temperate weather and shed their outer layers. _I suppose if we've got waterproofed jackets and boots, it's possible_. It bothers Moses that the Gamemakers can be so unpredictable, but he's resigned himself to the fact that he can't control the events... rather, he can control his reactions to the events instead.

Moses looks back at the dark frontier of the forest for the umpteenth time today, searching for any signs of life. Alton, working beside him, had been shocked when Moses pointed out a deer earlier in the morning, a gorgeous whitetail doe that had turned tail and fled upon seeing them. Hela and Crescentia came back into the encampment less than half an hour ago, bringing firewood for the night. Most tributes brush over the fire-making station out of fears that the Careers will find and hunt them down, but with five trained killers and two willing ones gathered in one area, Moses would agree that it would take a fool to approach them. Apart from the pair of girls, however, the rest of the alliance has yet to leave the Cornucopia. The two had been quiet upon coming back, though whatever sour mood Hela had seemingly woken up with only appeared to have worsened.

In fact, the immediate tensions following the bloodbath were only heightened by a brief, flaring argument between Alton and Asher. The former had been a little upset that Axel had escaped from the Wolfchild's clutches, after Asher had been chasing Axel for the majority of the bloodbath. But a physical fight had almost broken out when Asher vocally deemed Alton less of a man for taking care of Mercedes instead of Axel. _They both got a seven though_, Moses thinks, recalling the conversation the group had last night about targeting certain threats and neutralizing them before they could make a run for it. _It's no reason to attack Alton_, Moses thinks defensively about the other boy. Asher had retreated into the Cornucopia, and the tension inside the horn has been thick enough to cut with a knife since the incident.

In the brief time that he has gotten to know Alton Kersey, Moses has understood just how much the winning mentality has shaped his fellow Career's mind, creating a patchwork personality of insecurity, elegance and charisma that have become endearing. _Alton's been beaten down by the world_, Moses thinks sadly. The two of them share that trait, at the very least, with Alton having masculinity drilled into his core at the hands of his father and his older siblings; a kind of existence marred by the repression of his true feelings out of fear of a drunken dad with a penchant for verbal abuse.

It's a timeworn path Moses has travelled as well, learning that he must go to the fullest lengths in disproving negative perceptions of himself. He's trained hard to compensate for his height, spending long hours in the training facilities back in District Two. Perfection is such a tantalizing delusion, and it is one which Moses seeks with a certain vehemence. _I have to remind people what to think of me_, Moses thinks. _I have to prove that I can be better than everyone else_. It would seem that ever since the fateful night Moses had been caught fooling around with his best friend, he's been cornered into worrying about the perceptions of others.

It's the entire reason he volunteered. _But it would seem like everyone wants to find something out about themselves from the Games_, Moses ponders. _Maybe mine is supposed to be self-acceptance_. It is a strange thought, and one he almost dismisses immediately, but Moses instead clings to it like a thread. _Maybe I'll get what I'm looking for by being here_.

In the corner of his eye, Alton is leaning against the surface of the Cornucopia, the heated metal drying rather quickly in the sun. Despite the pleasantly warm exterior after a cold rain, the interior of the Cornucopia is still cool and dry, unlike the soggy ground beneath his feet.

Siren emerges quickly from the Cornucopia, and Moses follows her line of vision to the sky, spotting an incoming sponsor gift. Siren still remains rather distant as she outstretches her palm for the canister. It is a blackberry purple, one which matches the colored number _04_ displayed on her short-sleeved shirt. Moses catches himself staring at how well the shirt helps define her curves, but averts his eyes once the canister makes contact with her hand. She winces at a dark purple bruise on her forearm, which appears to sport the crescent-shaped indentations of teeth. _Come on, Moses!_ He berates himself, shaking his head. _First the Israel twins, now District Four?_ He almost jumps in surprise when Alton places a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"What do you think the sponsors sent her?" Alton asks him, curiosity sparking in his beautiful dark brown eyes.

"I'm not sure, to be honest," Moses says simply, eyes roaming freely over the taller boy's physique. Moses still remembers their initial meeting in the lobby, with Alton's abdomen on full display, olive skin visible through the torn layers of a blue sequined outfit. _Blue just compliments him so well_, Moses thinks enviously as his eyes center on Alton's district number. Both boys look over at Siren as the girl opens her canister, and Moses suddenly feels bold, lacing his fingers with Alton's. "Looks like we're about to find out, though."

Siren, noticing she has an audience, shoots the pair of them a grin, raising her eyebrow suggestively at the two of them holding hands. Moses feels his cheeks heat up, and moves to disentangle their fingers. Alton does the same, and a silent barrier of embarrassment grows between them. Moses himself hasn't felt this embarrassed since the second night of training, when the drinks had flowed long enough to spark shirtlessness and raunchy dancing… despite it being a tame enough gesture, the reminder that the entire nation - and by proxy, everyone at home - is watching is enough to make Moses feel ashamed. "Oh stop it, you two!" Siren groans. "Alton, I've seen you put your tongue into his mouth," she declares. "And _this_ is what embarasses the both of you? Ugh." Moses can feel the tips of his ears burning at her statement, and he is about to open his mouth and find a witty response when she brushes past the two of them, heading into the mouth of the Cornucopia.

There is an appreciative whistle from someone inside the horn, and Moses wants to gouge his own eyes out at how quickly the mood has changed. "What did you get?" Castiel asks curiously, a smile dancing around on his lips. As Moses and Alton shuffle in to join Siren, she unfolds a note from inside the canister, a stark white sheet of paper with neatly printed words.

"If you are the Siren of love," she reads, "then all you Careers are in for a loaf affair." There is an awkward pause as her words sink in. Alton's laugh rings off the inner walls of the Cornucopia, a crystal clear sound that makes Moses crack his first smile all day. Then Castiel and Crescentia start chuckling, and the tension laying thick across camp becomes momentarily dispelled.

Hela flashes Siren a smirk. "They sent you bread?" Asher asks from beside her, still tense from the argument and resting from the beating he took at the hands of the District Six tributes.

Siren pulls out a fish-shaped loaf of bread, holding the green-tinted loaf sarcastically next to her chin. _She's gotten her spark back_, Moses thinks happily. "It's a pun, Wolf Boy," Hela teases. Asher is glowering in his corner when the canisters start to rain down from the sky, like a legion of silver birds descending toward them.

Alton's brow furrows beside him, but Moses' lips are stretched into an eager grin as he spots a canister that matches his windbreaker. He catches the apricot-colored canister as gracefully as possible, feeling the elation flood through his veins with the knowledge that he, too, has received bread from the sponsors. Alton is beside him, and crushes him into a quick hug. Moses can smell the sweat and the sun on Alton's skin and wishes he could stay in Alton's embrace.

He sees his district partner emerging from the Cornucopia, and tosses Hela her pine green canister. She comes to stand next to him, and the two open their gifts with a matched desire. Inside, Moses finds three rock-shaped wheat rolls, straight from the bakeries of District Two. They're topped with oats for the extra strength it provides trainees, Peacekeepers and masons alike, and Moses can't eat one fast enough. _It tastes like home_, he thinks. Moses can see that Hela shares a similar sentiment behind her icy eyes, and his eyes crinkle with a smile at the sight of her cheek puffed out to accommodate half a roll in one bite.

Not only have none of them had anything to eat since the morning before Launch, but the simple taste of home after a week spent in the Capitol speaks deeply to his soul. Castiel and Crescentia are enjoying star-shaped loaves, which have a cracked sort of appearance on the top that Crescentia informs him is sugar. "Here, I'll trade you some," she says, mirth alight in her eyes. Crescentia tears off a piece of bread and hands it to him, the sugar coating cracked even more where her thumb grips it. Moses hands her a rock-shaped roll in return, and is surprised at how sweet the District One bread is when he takes a bite.

"That's delicious," Moses tells her, trying to hide a laugh at the mock disgust on Crescentia's face upon trying his own bread.

"It's too dense!" she exclaims, shaking her head and handing him the half-eaten roll. "You can have it back, I don't want any more."

Hela laughs coolly. "It's not supposed to be a delicacy," she remarks, watching Asher hold his rust orange canister. He does not make a move to open it, despite everyone else eating theirs.

"Ours is," Castiel states flatly. "Doesn't mean either of us is a pampered brat." Hela opens her mouth like she wants to make a retort, but bites her lip instead. At seeing the sour reaction, Castiel adds a mumbled "I do prefer... some luxuries, though."

Moses had meant to ask Castiel the meaning behind his vendetta against District Seven, but the thought is shoved aside when Crescentia takes Castiel's loaf and inspects it. "Mine looked better," she jests, winking at him. _Leave it to her to help break the tension, even if she doesn't quite get the sarcasm_. Moses at least _hopes_ it's sarcasm, and not unmasked hostility.

"Asher, don't be a buzzkill," Siren comments from the other side of the group, tossing her hair. "If you don't like your bread, I'll trade you what's left of mine," she suggests. Asher sighs and unlocks his canister, taking out a rye grain loaf shaped like a crescent.

"I've never been particularly impressed by our bakers," he admits. "Though seaweed doesn't sound too good, either." Moses can feel Alton bristle beside him and places a hand on Alton's arm. Alton gives Moses a pointed look, but the playful sarcasm behind his eyes is apparent enough. _At least he isn't looking for a fight_.

"Seaweed doesn't smell too good either," Alton admits. "But it _is_ an interesting flavor. Sure you don't want to give it a shot?" Asher shakes his head, nibbling carefully on the end of his own loaf with a dejected look on his face. Hela joins his side, looking a little protective, and offers him a roll, which he takes with a sigh.

"Don't worry about it... Asher," Hela mumbles. Moses is surprised to hear her use Asher's real name, rather than the mocking nickname she's been using throughout training. _Something has changed between the two of them_, Moses decides. He isn't sure what, but he hopes it's a good change.

"See," Siren continues, "the two of you are missing a better opportunity to hold hands." Alton groans good-naturedly beside him, but upon seeing Castiel's raised eyebrow, Moses reaches for Alton's fingers again, pulling him closer. "If Asher and Hela won't admit to their sexual tension," Siren begins - steamrolling over both an indignant glare from Hela and a surprised noise from Castiel - "Maybe the two of you can."

"It's obvious?" Alton asks, sounding as if he already knows the answer.

"I guess," says Moses, caught off guard as Alton leans in for a kiss, the slightest taste of seaweed lingering on his tongue. _A loaf affair indeed_, he thinks wryly.

Moses reminds himself that the moments like this aren't meant to last: they are simply a fleeting distraction from a bigger picture. Despite the atmospheric change among the group, he's right to be a little fearful at the assembled group of hidden monsters. Hela and Asher are killers, no doubts. They wear the ability as if it were a badge of honor; a prized skill with a metallic reek. He's seen the twisted glee in Castiel's eyes when the hovercraft retrieves the Seven girl's body from the side of the Cornucopia. He's seen the grim ferocity behind Siren's every movement, after dispatching the boy from District Twelve. _And even Alton and Crescentia are no different_, Moses reminds himself, despite how comfortable he feels among the latter three. _The anger in their eyes after returning from the chase with District Five says it all_. It makes Moses' skin crawl at how easily the six of them are willing to take pleasure in hunting and killing other tributes. He understands that the Hunger Games are no place for the weak of heart; and training his ass off to earn the coveted volunteer position is reflective of his understanding.

But tributes are not practice dummies, nor punching bags full of flour that sticks to his skin with every punch. _Tributes are human… and humans bleed_. Moses doesn't want to let the Games make him a monster.

For now, though, he is content to drown in the moment.

* * *

**Halley Verron** (**12**), **District 8 Tribute**

**8:48 PM**

The forest around her buzzes with the low thrumming of insects, broken by the staccato sound of cicadas hiding up in the branches. But despite the constant presence of noise, it is eerily devoid of signs of larger life; namely the telltale noises of tributes. Halley stops to take a breather, resting the small of her back against the rough bark of a thick, gnarled tree.

Halley wipes the dewdrops of perspiration off her brow, wiping the sweat on her pants. She's breathing hard, chest rising and falling rapidly ever since she snagged a small backpack from in front of the Cornucopia and hightailed it toward the wild frontier of the treeline as fast as possible. _I've been running in the same direction I saw Darnius go_, Halley thinks. _At least I hope so, that's for sure_. She lifts her eyes to what little blackening sky she can see beneath the thick blanket of leaves, deciding that she needs to find a place to hunker down for the night before it gets too dark.

_I've been looking for him all damn day_. Halley closes her eyes briefly, feeling slightly uncomfortable and out-of-place in the woods. _It could be much worse_, Halley decides, _but it sure isn't District Eight_.

There is a raw sort of pain spreading across her legs, and Halley winces gingerly as she rubs the inside of her thigh to alleviate the feeling. Despite most of their clothes being waterproof, the pants were permeable enough to make chafing an issue, something which makes Halley shake her head in disdain. _Where the hell is Darnius_? she thinks after a moment. Darnius and water are her top two priorities, and though she had stopped earlier in the day to let the last vestiges of rain fill her water bottle, the measly inch and a half she had collected isn't enough to sate her sudden thirst.

Immediately after drinking, Halley feels suspicion grow in her stomach. _What if there isn't any water, and the Gamemakers made the rain poisonous_? So far, Halley hasn't seen so much as a creek, and it wouldn't be unlike the Gamemakers to engineer another obstacle for the tributes to overcome. _But that's stupid_, she berates herself. _It was raining earlier and it didn't feel different at all_. She stows the empty plastic liter water bottle in the mud-colored backpack. The supplies she had gotten are far and few between: two plastic liter bottles, a case of twenty iodine pills, and half a pound of dried fruit. _And I don't have enough water to use the iodine_, Halley thinks with a frown, recalling the trainer's clear instructions that iodine pills would only work with a concentration of about a liter of water. _I don't want to poison myself, but I suppose it'd be better than having the Gamemakers do it for me_, Halley thinks sarcastically, folding her arms.

The biggest positive, however, is that she had taken a knife from where it had been driven into one of the crates outside the Cornucopia. The blade had, thankfully, been easy enough to wrest from the wooden surface, and having one sets Halley ahead a significant deal. If there was one thing she learned from the training center, it was that a knife could very well be the thread that keeps her alive, in both terms of survival and defense.

_Defense… not something I want to think about_, Halley decides, instead forcing herself to keep moving. _If Darnius has any sense, he'll have found a spot to stay already since he didn't grab any supplies_. It surprised her to see him take off so quickly, but considering the five cannons that sounded around fifteen minutes after she had left, Halley doesn't blame him. But not being able to find her fair-weather ally is beginning to piss Halley off. _How big is this arena? _She finds herself wondering as she sets off at a slow pace, trudging through the woods, making sure to draw the tactical jacket closer to her frame. The nylon windbreaker she had been given is a red ochre in color - not the worst in terms of noticeability, as she saw a few pinks and yellows - but certainly not a brown or a _green_. This subdued red color, however, she doesn't mind. _It's comfortable, and I can work with it._ She doesn't know how cold the nights will get, but if the days have the same sort of dry humidity that she's been dealing with ever since the rain let up, wearing the bulky military jacket is going to be a problem.

Halley ignores the cicadas, instead focused solely on the task at hand. _Finding Darnius before nightfall is ideal, since the Careers might come hunting._ She isn't sure how far she's run, nor where the hell Darnius went, but the Careers are undoubtedly going to search the woods at some point, and Halley grimly doubts that any of the cannons signaled for them. _If anyone is going to be an issue, it'll be the Careers_. With thoughts of trained killers chasing her through the woods filling her head, the rustling of leaves above her nearly makes her scream in fright. Halley turns sharply to face the noise with her knife clutched tightly in her hand, expecting to see a tribute jump down and attack her.

A small gray bird stares at her instead, head cocked innocently to the side. There seems to be some kind of insect clamped firmly in its tiny black beak, and despite her initial misgivings, seeing the bird has thus far been the best part of her day. _A bird means I'm not going to have to eat insects if things get rough_. After all, that bag of fruit isn't going to last very long. She calmly sheaths the knife, it already becoming hard enough to see the bird anyway, but freezes as she sees a darker shape lounging in the trees behind it.

_That looks like a fucking tribute!_ Her mind screams, and the bird takes off from the branch as the shape _moves_, lifting the silhouette of a head in her direction. Halley takes off sprinting, but she doesn't get far at all before she hears a thud behind her as the shape presumably falls out of the tree. _We haven't even gotten to the first night, _she thinks desperately. Halley feels the hairs on the back of her neck prickle, as if a phantom hand is reaching for her, and Halley twists her body, knife slashing behind her. The blade connects with an actual hand, and she hears an audible yelp. Adrenaline spikes in her bloodstream for the second time today - reminiscent of pulling the knife on the two girls during the bloodbath - as she waits tensely for the shape to attack her back.

"Halley?" a voice croaks, and she's instantly awash with a strange mix of guilt and relief.

"Darnius?" Halley asks, peering into the growing gloom of the woods. She's met with a smile, and Darnius crushes her into a hug. _It's almost like he's glad to see me_, Halley thinks, heart still hammering a mile a minute. _I expected to find _him_! Not the other way around!_

"Here I was, thinking I'm a dead man walking…" Darnius intones, voice trailing off into a murmur in her ear. "You don't know how good it is to see you alive," Darnius says, his voice full of a warmth Halley is unaccustomed to. "I was afraid one of the cannons was for you." He takes a brief glance at the sky, and sizes up a nearby sycamore tree with low-hanging branches.

"Well, who do you think died, then?" Halley blurts, the question having been on her mind all day. Darnius gives her a sideways look as he climbs into the tree, bracing his military-esque boot against the trunk of the sycamore.

"Well, I know the girl from Ten is still well and kicking," Darnius says darkly, leaning back down to extend a hand to Halley as she casts one last furtive glance around the foreboding woods. "I ran into her earlier," he elaborates.

"Is she still nearby?" Halley asks him, trying to suppress the sudden alarm in her voice.

"I'm not sure," Darnius says with a frown. "I'm the one who ran." He blinks when Halley declines his offer and instead hauls herself up onto the tree on her own. She climbs another branch higher, and Darnius follows with a strained grunt. The climb reminds her of days spent perched in a tree of the same breed, hiding away from angry Peacekeepers and street thugs. It feels safe, somehow, but Halley understands better than most that the good things always come to an end.

The two of them sit, perched in the thick branches of the tree, so that they have a clear view of the sky. Between the twisted ebony branches, the sky suddenly becomes awash with a false luminescence, and Halley shields her eyes, cringing away from the bright lights. The seal of the Capitol appears, geometric wings of the eagle spreading to the crescendo of the National Anthem of Panem, and both Halley and Darnius fall silent, watching with keen interest to see the faces of the fallen. Halley's eyes are lowered, but still trained on the sky. She watches as the seal fades into a collection of vibrant pixels, which rearrange to form the headshot of the District Three boy - Edward - whom Halley vaguely recalls from training and his absurd interview.

_Damn_, she thinks to herself. _Skipping to the Three boy means none of the Careers from One or Two have died_. Halley can sense a similar unease in her district partner as District Four also makes no appearances. The male tribute from District Four had died in the bloodbath last year, but Halley chides herself for believing they might get lucky again this year. _Though there's still the boy from Eleven… Asher_, Halley thinks, watching Mercedes' face fade from the sky.

It is the only death to remotely shock her, however. Mercedes had scored a seven in training, whereas none of the others scraped higher than a four. Darnius and Halley are still as the last face appears in the sky, listening as the Anthem slows and fades into the cool nighttime air. "No Careers, then," Darnius says quietly, shaking his head beside her.

"I was hoping we'd be lucky," Halley agrees, sighing heavily. The luminescent glow is replaced by the weak, watery light of the moon, and the pair calms their breathing, keeping it low and quiet in case anything has changed down in the eerily quiet forest beneath them. "But tomorrow's a different day, you know?"

Halley almost falls off the branch when a silver canister plummets down from the sky, its parachute like a ghost drifting down from the heavens. It lands in her district partner's lap, but even in the strained lighting, Halley can see that the canister is of a red ochre coloration, the same as the numbers on the back of her jacket. Darnius sighs, about to say something, and then stops himself. Even in the limited time frame within which Halley has gotten to know him, she understands that Darnius would rather concern himself with the situation at hand rather than dream about what was or could be.

_It's simple_. _I have something, and he doesn't_. Darnius hands her the canister, the resistance from his fingers telling her he is reluctant to let it go, especially given the distinct disadvantage running from the bloodbath has given him. It is a strange, mixed feeling that resides in Halley's gut as she opens the canister.

Inside, there are five small biscuits nestled in a linen napkin. Halley carefully unwraps one and hands it to Darnius. "We have bread," she whispers, the feeling of the button-shaped biscuit a familiar one to her fingertips. "We have _bread!_" she grins eagerly, the smile that tugs at Darnius' lips making the choice to share the sponsor gift worth it. _I'm not used to sharing anything_, Halley is willing to admit to herself, given the harsh and stringent conditions of street life. _But it doesn't feel too bad_. Halley watches Darnius cram the biscuit into his mouth, both clearly famished from a day spent running from whatever demons lurk behind them.

She sees Darnius unfold a small piece of paper from his pocket, having been saved from water damage by the waterproof finish Halley's fingers scratched against earlier. He lifts it up to the sky, the paper catching a faint glow from the moon. She's seen the paper before, his tribute token… _He takes it out when he thinks no one is looking_, she knows. She looks away, already knowing the words his girlfriend had written on the paper; a poem about the melancholy of death.

Darnius reads it in silence beside her, his breath trembling as he reads words he must have read a hundred times over since the moment the two of them boarded the trains, leaving the smog-filled air of District Eight behind them.

Halley takes a bite out of the soft, flaky biscuit, staring up at the pitch-black sky. She can make out a few stars sprinkled in the gated heavens above, and wonders if the five fallen tributes are among them. It is a story that Old Man Clyde tells her once, on the stairs of the homeless shelter. It's a story told when the rest of the district pays them no heed, just a sun-wrinkled elder and a malnourished girl sitting side-by-side on the brownstone steps. She remembers seeing the stars winking into existence as the night grows long around them and the streets begin to empty.

"_What are those for?"_ Halley asks her friend, the man on the recovery from another onset of dementia. He'd always been patient with her, and she was with him each time his memory had failed and Halley needed to remind Old Man Clyde why the little girl on the streets had come to see him. "_Why do we have stars, anyway?"_ Her friend had just smiled, shaking his head softly and adjusting the old moth-eaten flat cap he wore. "_We have stars, Halley, because the heavens are full where all the kind souls go when they depart from the world." _A nine-year old Halley had clung to his hand, staring into his crinkled eyes as he sated her curiosity. "_Your parents are up there somewhere too, I reckon,"_ he had said slowly, voice like beaten gravel on a paved road. "_They're always going to watch over you, much better than I or Missus Lylanis ever could."_

It is a belief that Halley has clung to in the three long years passing that conversation, a belief that made each glimpse of the nighttime sky even more special than the last. Halley rests her head against Darnius' shoulder, and she listens to him exhale slowly. Maybe her parents are here, too, watching over her in the arena. But no matter how much Halley wants to see them again, she hopes that her face won't be the next to light up the sky.

Hers is a soul that isn't ready to become another shining pinprick in the faraway heavens.

* * *

**Brita Edison **(**17**), **District 3 Tribute**

**9:02 PM**

The Anthem of Panem is still ringing in Brita's ears long after it has ceased playing, a void created in the absence of any sounds. The forest around her is dusky and indistinct, a blur of trees and shadows that threaten to reach out and twist a knife in her stomach at every turn.

She had spent the day perched in the same tree, not running, but instead choosing to ponder what being one of the few tributes who had turned tail and run from the carnage entails. _Maybe it makes me sensible_, Brita thinks, her mind turning to the cold blue luminescence of Edward's pixelated face. Despite how annoying and delusional her district partner had turned out to be, there is a part of her which misses one of the few reminders she has left of home. Instinctively, her hand closes in around her necklace, the grooves at the end of the data chip digging into the soft flesh of her fingers. _But he would have been dead weight, especially without any supplies_.

In a morbid way, Brita wonders exactly _how_ Edward died. She recalls ridiculing the boy nationally on the night of the interviews, calling him 'fucking hopeless' in an effort to vindictively make herself memorable. _But was he hopeless, or did he fight?_ There was a creepy sort of excitement that had clouded her district partner's mind, one which makes it hard for Brita to rule bloodlust out of the picture. _Was it the Careers? An outlier? Did one of the twelve-year-old girls kill him? _It is an amusing thought, but one which Brita casts to the grim blackness of the hungry shadows. Her fingers unclasp from the data chip, as if the memory of her parents can be soiled by the dark thoughts which tarnish her mind.

_Maybe it makes me desperate_, Brita thinks, shaking her head as she listens to the ceaseless hum of the woods. A soft breeze, the rustling leaves, and the nighttime noises of insects are all which Brita allows herself to think about for a moment, letting the ephemeral sense of serenity wash over her. Running from danger does _not_ make her desperate; it makes her _smart_. _I've been intelligent all my life_, Brita thinks, her slumped posture improving slightly at the self-praise. _Running from danger is a completely logical thing to do_, Brita assures herself, fidgeting with her fingers. She drags the fingernail of her index finger across the cuticle of her thumb, flattening it in a series of short motions. Once she is satisfied by the sensory result, Brita moves on, pushing her cuticles down as she tries to ignore the answer that her train of thought has led her to.

Ultimately, it does not matter how _smart_ or _sensible_ running from the bloodbath makes her. It matters that being unequipped for anything that requires more than her mental strengths and her wit - which, in a _forest_, means practically everything - makes Brita extremely dependable on being able to find Sorrel and Nyx. She had waited with bated breath to see their faces appear in the sky, but when Edward's face faded into that of the girl from District Six, Brita had exhaled a heavy sigh of relief. _I'm not completely alone_.

_But if they won't accept me, I'm as good as dead_. Brita does not need to do the math to understand that the odds are not, in fact, in her favor.

She sighs and rests her head against the solid surface of the tree behind her. _It's a ridiculous predicament_, Brita decides. _What did I do to deserve being here? _Her answer is so simple, yet the answer itself gives her no amount of solace. Instead Brita turns over her options in her mind, knowing how hard it will be to rest easy until she has a solid game plan.

Brita's had a plan taking place in her mind ever since the private demonstrations with Head Gamemaker Vetura, one which she bites back on the stage so that her plans are not laid bare and exposed for the rest of the tributes to see. _No matter how smart and cunning it would make me look_, Brita thinks wryly. _I'm going to blow up the Careers_.

It's simpler than it sounds, a process Brita has run through her head a hundred times over throughout the day. She remembers snooping around her brother's work computer some nights when he entrusted her to be home alone while he took his girlfriend out for a date. _I'm seventeen, Darwin_, she thinks, silently cursing her caretaker from miles away. _I can totally be trusted home alone_. Brita chuckles to herself slowly, the sound masked by the return of the insects, braver now that the booming anthem has ceased.

Darwin designed bombs, simply put. The engineering company he had been employed by was tasked with creating and overseeing the manufacturing of anti-personnel mines by a mysterious Capitolite benefactor, a detail that Brita had long ago overlooked when she could not decrypt the ciphered information. The realization hits her like a train, and she sits up straighter, almost falling out of the tree. _Does Darwin work for the Gamemakers?_ Regardless of how indirect the chain of command might be, the thought of her brother working for the Capitol infuriates her. _Especially given that the Capitol fucking kidnapped my parents!_

It takes Brita a solid five minutes to calm down after this revelation, and all the while, the resolve to use her brother's weapons to win the Hunger Games grows. _They're deactivated now_, she knows, but the hardest part is digging into the base of the pedestals that form a ring around the Cornucopia without the Careers noticing. _And that's assuming they're camped with all the supplies_, Brita thinks remorsefully. _Might be easiest to do in the rain, so it's less solid digging_. She's no textile expert, but the nylon windbreaker and the repellent sheen on both the outer coat and the black military boots is enough to tell Brita that it's bound to rain more than once.

_And when it does, it's simple. If it's raining, it'll be harder to see me. _All Brita has to do from there is a series of motions she has drilled into her head, a computerized checklist that could easily turn her into the deadliest tribute left into the arena. Once pressure is applied to the plate, a firing pin is pushed into the detonator, which then explodes and ignites the charge of tetryl explosives. Her plan might hinge on luck and dreams, but if it is indeed her brother's company that discreetly manufactures the landmines used in the Hunger Games - _or if they're remotely similar_, Brita reminds herself - then she stands a high chance of success. _All I have to do is dig them up and twist the automatic safety clip into activation_.

It's easy enough, but it still makes Brita dependable on finding District Five as a source of backup and protection. _I can play mastermind, but there are too many variables_. In a similar vein, Sorrel's distrustfulness has made Brita feel uneasy about re-approaching the duo. But seeing that both of them have survived the bloodbath is rejuvenating, and the thought coaxes a smile out of her.

_I should go find them, actually_. The arena might be large, but with any luck, they ran in the same direction that she did. Brita tries to remember the positions of her allies, catching a glimpse of Sorrel on the far end, across from her, and Nyx centered roughly in the middle, albeit leaning a little closer to Brita's side. She readjusts herself in the tree, with one hand firmly grasping the branch above her as she crouches, scanning the nighttime sky.

_He would have run to Nyx_, Brita assesses. None of the stars are familiar to her, but Brita catches a dark shape between the rustling leaves of the canopy around her. It is the crown of a massive tree that she had seen earlier in the day when scouring the forest for a place to hide for the night in case the Careers came hunting. _Doesn't hurt to put a little distance between me and them_, Brita thinks, hoping it doesn't jeopardize her chances of finding Sorrel and Nyx. _But the closer I am to the tree, the further away I am to them_.

It is a harrowing decision to slink down the trunk of the tree, heightened by a few missed handholds that leave Brita clenching her teeth and hissing at the pain the scrapes have caused. She picks herself off the forest floor, wincing, and walks stiffly in the direction opposite the massive tree. _Now's the best time to find them_, Brita decides, trying to be logical. _They'll likely be camped out somewhere, tree or otherwise_.

And if they're stationary, she's bound to bump into them at some point during the night. It is that singular thought that keeps Brita going, walking like a cat in the shadows of the trees until she reaches a dead end in the form of a brief stretch of grass that plunges into a cliff. The valley beneath is dark, and shrouded in mist and gloom, but a spike of fear wedges itself in Brita's chest when she catches a whispered word on the wind.

Brita strains her ear for a moment, listening to the whispers riding on the stiff breeze that floats through the air. Her heart hammers in her chest at the prospect of confronting any potentially armed tributes.

"... need to… early tomorrow," says one voice, masculine in tone, with a slow and polite disposition that makes Brita crane her neck further to hear.

"Shit, Sorrel… I _told_ you… have a headache!" says an unmistakeably - and clearly exasperated - feminine voice. _It's them!_ Brita can feel the pit weighing in her stomach grow lighter as she realizes that in roughly an hour of searching, she has found her allies.

"Well, I'm sorry… have to eat _something_..." Sorrel's voice continues, and Brita can almost _feel_ how annoying the situation must be from all the way up on top of the cliffside. _Have they been arguing all day?_ The thought is certainly not a pleasing one, though with Sorrel's unnervingly unflappable disposition, Brita would assume Nyx would have to be the one causing the argument.

On cue, Nyx comes at her district partner with a sharp retort. "It's almost nighttime! Why are you worried?" Her voice might be amplified by the structure of the valley, but Brita is beginning to think that they're close to where she is standing.

A loud _shush_ from Sorrel makes Brita roll her eyes. _Although he can clearly get overbearing sometimes_, Brita thinks. It's an analysis she picked up when visiting their apartments, and an observation that stuck throughout training and even when watching the interviews from the comfort of her dressing room backstage. Nyx, a great blushing mess, had professed her love for Sorrel, and he simply explained how they met and that he had pined after Nyx for quite some time. _I suppose he's a nice guy, but the two of them are like night and day_, she thinks with a scoff. _A hothead, the Iceman, and me. Guess it's a threesome now, huh?_

There is a collective silence beneath her, and Brita sees an inky figure shift in the gloom below her, dropping from a tree on the far side of the valley. _Not a bad hiding spot,_ Brita realizes. _Who the hell wants to go down into a valley?_ Casting a furtive glance behind herself, Brita raises an arm and waves at the distant figure, wishing she could shout at them without fear of disturbing any other tributes that might reside in the nearby woods.

The figure lifts their head, and she knows without a doubt that Sorrel's observant eyes have seen her atop the side of the cliff. _Getting down into the valley will be the easy part, then_, Brita decides.

_Winning Sorrel over for a second time will not be._

* * *

**Crescentia Monroe **(**18**), **District 1 Tribute**

**10:39 PM**

Whatever good feeling had made Crescentia feel enamored with her allies in the afternoon has long since worn off. Seven Careers sit in beleaguered silence on the three fallen logs dragged in by Alton and Castiel from the woods, the rough surface abrasive to Crescentia's fingers when she runs them across the bark. A fire is crackling between them, wispy strands of smoke curling toward a navy-blue sky speckled with stars.

The mood around their campsite at the Cornucopia has been strained all day, centering on whatever had upset Hela earlier in the day. _I swear, that girl knows how to hold one hell of a grudge,_ Crescentia thinks. As a group, it would be much easier if Castiel and Hela were to get along for once, but if their initial contact with District Two during the parade was an indicator, Crescentia knows that it will be a conflict between the two that drives the Career Pack apart.

_Like putting a band-aid on a sinking ship_, Crescentia snorts, ignoring the strange look she gets from Asher. The chessboard is set, but if the unmasked hostility between Alton and Asher is anything to go by, the only pieces that have moved thus far are the pawns. Crescentia and Siren share a sidelong glance but say nothing, refusing to be the ones to break the awkward tension again. Castiel pokes the fire with a stick, the tip whittled into a point with his knife. A few embers spark up, and suddenly Crescentia wishes she were back home in her lavish house in District One. She and her friends used to take marshmallows and roast them over the smoldering ashes underneath the fireplace grate. _What I wouldn't give for a marshmallow_, Crescentia groans. After almost an entire day spent in the arena, she already misses the luxurious foods she's grown accustomed to during their time in the Capitol.

_And broth isn't going to cut it_, she decides, reminiscing unfondly of the broth she and Moses had made for the group by boiling water and bouillon cubes in the thermal canteens they found in a crate someone had already rummaged through. Any crate that was unopened has been stacked in a neat pile just inside the mouth of the Cornucopia, numbering five in total that Crescentia's district partner refuses to open. He's stopped stoking the fire, returning to casually fiddling with his bracelet on the log next to Asher.

"We going to go hunting tomorrow?" Asher asks aloud, his voice gravelly. His downcast eyes never leave the fire, glued to the flickering flames rather than looking anyone in the face. He is met with a brief silence, and Crescentia can feel her skin crawl as it registers that they will be hunting _tributes_.

Hela nods fervently, her eyes glinting darkly in the firelight. "I've got a promise I have yet to uphold," she says coolly, referencing the end of her interview with Mr. Valentine. "I intend to make good on it," Hela adds firmly, shaking her head in scorn.

_Maybe she's upset about not getting a kill during the bloodbath, _Crescentia reasons. _The Hunger Games mean a lot more to her than the rest of us_... It would explain the outburst against Castiel earlier in the day when the latter had wondered aloud where Ruben Bolt, the tall and dangerous tribute from Ten, had run off to after Hela attacked him during the bloodbath. _He's the biggest competitor, in their eyes at least_, Crescentia muses. _Maybe it's the classic Career arrogance they share, but I wouldn't discount anyone else who's left_. _Not for a second_.

After all, it would be just as easy for someone like the twelve-year old from District Eight - or the auburn-haired girl from Three who had turned tail and run away - to find a creative way to kill Crescentia and her alles. _Desperation does strange things to people_.

"We can go looking, for sure," Castiel says monotonously, gesturing vaguely at the dark smudge of trees that marks the beginning of the woods. "But we should be careful about it, especially this early on…" he trails off, unsure, as Asher stands and dusts off his hands on his pants.

"See you in the morning then," Asher says, voice betraying his distrustfulness. _I feel nervous too, having to sleep next to the others_. With four trained killers, and Asher - who has mentioned his experiences on the streets more than once - sleeping in the Cornucopia, Crescentia is worried about herself and Siren should something occur during the night. _Would it be better to sleep near the back, then? For more protection? Or in the front, for an easier escape?_

Moses gives Asher a half-hearted wave, scuffing his boot in the dirt that has long since dried from the rain. _I guess it helps that they think I'm trained_, Crescentia understands. _Even though I didn't kill either of District Five… _Despite any moral objections she has to killing, Crescentia knows that the only way to prove her false truths is to kill another tribute. _Otherwise they might find out that I'm not trained at all… Castiel's come close a few times_. It takes a lot of self-restraint for Crescentia not to smack herself in the forehead for her mistakes, especially when they come priced at the ultimate cost.

If the others find out, it's game over.

Alton gives Moses' hand a little squeeze before heading into the golden horn to join the boy he had been hostile with all day, yawning and stretching on his way. It's been the first of surely many long days to come, and with limited food, sleep is the next best cure for a growling stomach. Siren stands and sits on the vacant log next to Hela, speaking in a tone low enough that Crescentia can't hear her. Both girls get up and walk a short way outside the circle of logs, stopping where the sickly yellow light ends on the grass and fades into dark gray shadows.

Crescentia exhales slowly from her nose, trying to control her breathing. _Today has been insanely stressful_, she thinks ruefully. It was nothing like Crescentia had imagined, not when she volunteers over the chosen trainee. Not when her father yells at her in the confines of the Justice Building for her decision to 'throw her life away,' nor her mother's disdain or her younger sister finally sticking up for Crescentia. _Silver Hail thinks I can do this_, she reminds herself. _My sister believes I can lie and blackmail my way through them all_.

Her dancing partner, too - though nothing romantic had ever sparked between them - had come to visit her, Turmalin Lopez resting his forehead against hers in a baffled sort of silence. '_You're right,'_ her friends tell her. '_The odds are the same for anyone… but you're playing with fire, Crescentia_.' It's a fire far deadlier than any spur-of-the-moment shoplifting, far deadlier than a stone cold dinner and an uncaring pair of parents. Crescentia tucks her knees against her chest and wraps her arms around them, resting her boots on the log. She stares listlessly into the fire, trying to ignore the low murmuring of the other two girls, nor the crackling that seems almost deafening in the eerie silence of the night.

It's all a show, a show of confidence and bravery, of stupidity and elation, sorrow and remorse. _And this pageant will henceforth and forevermore be known as the Hunger Games_, Crescentia thinks, the words burned into her brain each year when their escort reads the Treaty of Treason. Crescentia is fully aware of her self-esteem, and no matter how fake a sense of confidence might feel, she knows that in an ugly world, it will make her stand stronger and shine brighter. She may not be deserving of confidence, but it is something Crescentia hopes to find within herself once this pageant is over and done with; a confidence that society doesn't demand, but rather one which can make her feel successful. Even though she hates how run-of-the-mill her middle name is, Crescentia wouldn't mind being able to shine a little brighter if it means she can survive. _So I can prove that I'm right_, Crescentia muses, the thought turning the corners of her lips into a soft smile that she hides expertly behind her arm.

"Hey Crescentia," Castiel says softly, taking a seat on the log beside her just as Hela and Siren wrap up whatever conversation they were having. Crescentia's eyes widen at seeing Hela give Siren a stiff side-hug, but she snaps her attention back to Castiel. "Hela and Asher want to go hunting for tributes tomorrow, but I was wondering if you'd want to come with me," he explains slowly. "I don't think there are any alliances left that are bigger than a pair, and I know we can take care of any of them if it comes down to it." He searches her eyes with his own, and Crescentia understands that behind the dark blue eyes, it is a guise. _He's not asking_.

"Night, guys," Siren interjects, with Moses flashing her a small smile before she disappears into the still shadows of the Cornucopia. Crescentia raises a hand in acknowledgement, but says nothing. _I'll sleep next to her, wherever she goes_, Crescentia decides. _Out of all of them, she's the one I trust the most_.

"Sure thing, Castiel," she agrees, relaxing her legs and placing them firmly on the ground again. "And the others?" Crescentia asks quietly.

"I think they'll be fine," he nods. "Something tells me they won't mind playing defense." There is a hint of bitterness in his voice, as if it makes him jealous, and Crescentia is reminded of his bracelet. _A broken promise, no doubt_. Castiel stands again, glancing at Hela's dark silhouette, standing alone in the darkness, and a shiver runs down her spine at the look in his eyes. "Sounds good?"

"Yeah," Crescentia says simply. "Lets see who we can find tomorrow," she grins, trying to add an edge of Career ferocity to her voice. Castiel's eyes crinkle, and he gives her a wink before slipping away into the Cornucopia to join the others in whatever sleeping accommodations they've laid out. His absence leaves a stone to grow in the pit of her stomach. _Does he trust me? Does he believe me, or is he going to dispose of me in the woods once we're far enough away?_ Out of all her competitors, it is Castiel who worries her the most. _He could flip on a dime if he knows I'm lying_.

Crescentia doesn't want to see the hurt on his face when he figures it out.

"What do you think she's thinking about?" Moses asks Crescentia, his voice kept still and low from the log next to hers. His dark skin gleams in the firelight, a beautiful umber color that is not too unlike the burgundy red of her tribute clothing, a color that a Crescentia back in District One would fawn over at the dress shops and boutiques.

She looks at him with a confused expression, before following his gaze. It lands solely on his district partner Hela, with her long dark hair now unbraided as she stares into the gloomy woods. "Hela?" Crescentia asks, trying to keep a straight face. Conversation has always come natural to her, but if she can avoid pissing people off, it is always the ideal situation. "What she's thinking about?"

_Whatever it is, it might be good_, she thinks wishfully. _I mean, Hela hugged_ _someone. That _has _to be a first. _Crescentia folds her arms for a moment, and then with a slightly turned over smile, raises an eyebrow. "What do you think she's thinking about, Moses?"

"Snowflakes," Moses replies quickly, assuredly.

"Snowflakes?" Crescentia repeats, frowning. "Why snowflakes? Get to the point," she says, nostrils flaring as she is getting a little frustrated by Moses skirting around the point.

"Because she knows that every snowflake is supposed to be different, right?" Moses keeps his gaze directly on his district partner's silhouette, her arms folded behind her back. A slight edge has built in his voice, one which causes her to sit up straighter, the fire now reduced to dying orange embers and ashy flakes which float into the darkening air.

It takes his next words a minute to sink in, but when they do, her jaw tightens and they lock eyes in a silent sort of agreement.

"And how unlike a snowflake, Hela isn't special at all."

* * *

**Axel Richthofen **(**16**), **District 6 Tribute**

**11:43 PM**

_She deserved it_. _She had it coming_, Axel thinks bitterly, curling his lip slightly. He shakes his head and sighs, the hard exhale being the first sound he has uttered since vanishing from the battlefield this morning, leaving the carnage to unfold behind him. The penance for Axel's dirtiest deeds may have come early, but he chooses to thwart death's cold embrace out of spite instead. _I'll outlast the rest of these fuckers and that'll be it_. The exhale is a raspy noise, and one which uncomfortably fills the complete silence around him. Axel breathes through his nose, quelling the chance that the noise attracts unwanted attention, and removes himself from where he had been positioned. Axel had been reclined against the rough, weathered bark of some nameless tree or other, making sure he had a clear view of the sky when the death recap was broadcast across the arena.

_It's a strange feeling_, Axel thinks, _to connect faces with the cannons I heard earlier_. But in the end, each and every one of the five dead tributes had it coming to them, each laden with the traits and flaws that he believes earns them eternal damnation.. _Especially Mercedes_, he thinks, remembering the way her shoulders had tensed up in annoyance while they waited in line to be interviewed. _God, she was irritable, _Axel thinks with a grin, a manic and breathy laugh forming behind his teeth. Ever since their conversation on the rooftop during the second night of training, when Axel's district partner Mercedes voices her discontentment with their alliance, he's been plotting her demise. '_I don't know if allying with you was the right choice for me, Axel,'_ he thinks, twisting her words an octave higher into a mockery of themselves. '_I don't know if I can trust you like I thought I could_.'

Axel pinches the bridge of his nose. _Well, welcome to the party_. Mercedes wasn't the first, and if Axel somehow manages to get out of this hellhole, she certainly will not be the last. _I knew she was a lost cause since the moment we landed in this piece-of-shit paradise_. Axel braces his boot against the trunk of the tree, finding a tentative purchase in one of the ridges running through the bark. He braces his hands on the branch where he had been sitting, and slowly inches his way down the height of the tree, hands trembling involuntarily.

_And now the bitch isn't breathing_.

_Serves her right_. It pleases Axel to no end that he managed to succeed in his goal of raiding Mercedes' supplies and disposing of his ally on one fell swoop. Even better, Axel didn't even need to be the one _holding_ the metaphorical knife. _One of the meathead Careers probably did it. _Either the muscular olive-skinned boy from Four took care of Mercedes, or the lithe redhead from District Eleven did, but either way, she is a nuisance he is glad to finally be rid of.

Axel draws his overcoat closer around him, the black military-grade jacket blending in well with the shadows. He supposes that he is one of the luckier tributes, as the Payne's gray coloration of his district number and nylon jacket also blends seamlessly with the gloominess of the chilly nighttime forest, making him nearly invisible to the naked eye.

Axel scans the area for any signs of movement before creeping out of the treeline, feelings of paranoia keeping him rooted in place as he makes sure that the coast is clear of any present danger. Below him, at the foot of a downward slope of grass, is a winding river. The water is lazy, moving in a slow fashion, and the water is a dark onyx blue that seems to refuse to let the moonlight penetrate its surface, remaining instead a dark inky black. The river is a danger to have set up camp beside, as the short stretch of grass before the water's edge is - no matter _how_ you put it - a calling card for danger. Everything has a price, but Axel is unwilling to pay the toll of injury that might be demanded from him should a Career chance upon this stretch of river.

_Just because there's nowhere to hide doesn't mean they have an advantage_, Axel muses, mouth pressed into a thin frown Of course, Axel is smart enough to understand how _stupid_ jeopardizing his own life is. The very reason he ditched Mercedes during the bloodbath is the same reason he will avoid anyone who isn't easy pickings. It's a survivalist mentality that guaranteed he lived to see the sunrise on the streets, and despite the towering industrial buildings being replaced by trees that scrape the sky in their place, the mentality remains steadfast and unchanging, influenced solely by the whims of adrenaline.

Axel is quiet as he dips his hands into the river, his thin fingers gliding effortlessly into the water, breaking the still marble surface and sending gleaming ripples to create rings around his hands. It is another sound that melts into the fold, a myriad of quiet nighttime noises like the humming of crickets or the rustling of leaves creating a blanketed hum that Axel finds numbing. He drags his fingers through the water, collecting a handful of river-water that Axel presses to his face, scrubbing the thin layer of sweat from his brow and his sunken cheekbones. It is a relaxing sensation to feel the coolness of the water on his skin, one that helps Axel clear his mind from the dark thoughts he has heard whispered in his ear all day.

There is a small gust of wind to his back, and Axel whirls around, spraying droplets of water from his hands. A metal canister rests behind him, silver parachute still attached. A bubble of laughter rises in his throat, and Axel dries his fingers by using the water to slick his hair back out of his eyes. _I'm shocked that someone wanted to sponsor me_, he thinks. After a less-than-memorable interview, Axel was hoping that the Capitol would understand that he does not wish to be a pawn, to act like a chess piece in their annual pageant of blood. _They leave me alone, and I won't bother them. But this is unexpected_, he thinks, turning over the canister in his hands. It is then, under the light of the ghostly moon, that Axel sees the faint ash green coloration to the metal. He remembers the color on Mercedes when the two boarded the hovercraft that would transport them to the arena, and before they were blindfolded and led their separate ways to the launching rooms like cattle; lastly, Axel remembers the ash green color soaked with rain and blood as he leaves her crippled form to die in the slick mud, wrestling her bag from underneath her prone body. _See you in hell when this is all over_, he remembers himself saying, the final words that she hears having dripped off Axel's tongue like the priceless rubies they were. The canister is not meant for Axel. Instead, it is a memory of his district partner, a sponsor gift no doubt lined up and ready to be sent once the killing had ended.

He has no moral qualms to opening the canister. _It is a game to survive. To lie, to cheat and kill_, Axel thinks rather ruthlessly, _not a place to make lifelong friends_. And he's always been good at the former opposed to the latter. Inside the canister, Axel finds a loaf of bread sitting on top of a package of stark white bandages. _Pricey_, he thinks sarcastically, lifting the wheel-shaped loaf out of its casket. It is a dark rye bread, supposed to mimic the kinds of tires that the automobile factories manufacture to fit Peacekeeper humvees and mayoral limousines, and just looking at it makes him feel sick inside.

_Not my fault I got used to the luxury_, Axel thinks furiously, setting the gift down on the grass, the loaf wrapped in the linen napkin that it had been sent in. _But why do they have to send us the same shit we eat every day of our lives?_ _Would it kill the Gamemakers to send me some fancy Capitol bread?_ Axel groans, rolling his eyes as he picks up the canister. _Why did I get Mercedes' gift?_ He wonders. _Do they think I'm the next best thing?_ It makes Axel angry, to think that he could be second-best to his district partner with her simpering smiles and her patronizing glares. He grabs the canister and throws it, without thinking, into the river. It makes a large splash, and a spray of droplets hits Axel in the face before it is carried under the lazy current and swept away elsewhere. _How dare they remind me of her_. It doesn't matter that his drugged mentor, Axelle, sent him another loaf of bread just after the bloodbath, an unintelligible scrawl tagged to the inside of the canister. It matters that Mercedes would have had Capitolite sponsors like this one, whereas he wouldn't.

_If she received this in front of me, I'd probably kill her for it_. He does not balk at the thought, instead focusing the slow build-up of hatred into how thrilling it would have been to dispose of her himself. '_You don't apologize for the wicked thoughts, boy,' _Nandan Yorusco had told him once, after Axel had taken the lighter as his prize from the unconscious debtor as the man bled into the streets. "You hone them," he whispers aloud, the hoarse words that finish his employer's sentence sticking to the dry outside of his lips. Axel trudges back to the riverbank, collecting the contents of the sponsor gift, swatting at a small crowd of fireflies as he does so. Though he has half a loaf left in the tree with the rest of his supplies, Axel can't help but take a bite of the dark rye bread as he leaves the inky river behind and travels back to his perch in the woods. This time, the bread does not taste like dirty paste. This time, the bread - though it goes down dry without a sip of water - tastes like a fractional kind of victory, as if Axel has earned the spoils of war through promising Mercedes her comeuppance.

Axel reaches into the air and closes a fist around one of the fireflies, a quick motion that crushes the bug against his palm. When he unfurls his fingers, Axel is pleased to see the luminescent paste taint his skin. He returns to the base of his tree, the forest floor shrouded in shadows cast by the fragmented light of the moon. Axel stows the sponsor gifts inside his coat, wedged between the nylon windbreaker and the outer jacket as he climbs the tree again, hauling himself back to his resting place. _It would hurt like a bitch if I fell out_, Axel thinks, for once grateful for the insomnia that plagues the later hours of the night. He's always been grateful, too, for the few hours that he manages to get a night, but exhaustion is bound to catch up to him at some point in the arena. For now, though, the solitude of the forest is an entertaining sort of loneliness.

Axel leans his back against the tree, drawing the hood of his windbreaker and throwing it over his head. The lethargic gesture is a comforting one, one which makes Axel feel less exposed to the eyes of the nation. He then draws one knee closer to his chest and folds his arms, hoping that the cameras pick up on the nonchalance and anarchism of his gesture. _You can't make me feel afraid_. Axel grins, taking his lighter out of his pocket and flicking it open and closed. His token makes a small clicking sound as the metal locks into itself.

He's been dancing with the devil all his life, and the arena is no different. The morning will come, and Axel will be stuck in the same place, vying for the victor's crown. Axel finds solace in the fact that he knows how to crush a windpipe, how to stab someone in the lung so their screams are muted and breathy. But there is an art to death that he has yet to master.

_And maybe the Games will teach me_, he thinks vehemently, yearning for the price of comeuppance that each tribute will pay. _It'll come around to everyone_, Axel grins.

_Everyone will get their six feet under_.

* * *

**ALLIANCES: **

* * *

_**Career Pack**_**: Castiel (D1M), Crescentia (D1F), Moses (D2M), Hela (D2F), Alton (D4M), Siren (D4F), Asher (D11M)**

_**Angsty Teen Romance (Plus One?)**_**: Sorrel (D5M), Nyx (D5F), Brita (D3F)?**

_**The Beans Are Dead**_**: Winston (D7M), Padds (D9M)**

_**Shooketh**_**: Tangaria (D11F), Mariela (D12F)**

_**Flying Solo**_**: Axel (D6M)**

_**Aggression and Sunshine**_**: Darnius (D8M)**

_**From Ember to Flame**_**: Halley (D8F)**

_**The "Apex Predator"**_**: Ruben (D10M)**

_**Violet Violence**_**: Evie (D10F)**

* * *

**Author's Note****: … yep. I'm a disappointment. That's pretty much it for now.**


	22. Chapter 22: The Birds Are Singing

"_Tell the truth, you wouldn't dare_

_The skin and trophy, oh so rare_

_Silence speaks louder than words_

_Ignore the guilt and take your turn…"_

-Megadeth, Countdown to Extinction

* * *

**CHAPTER 22**

**THE BIRDS ARE SINGING**

**DAY TWO**

* * *

**Ruben Bolt **(**18**), **District 10 Tribute**

**5:05 AM**

The first night in the arena is the worst sleep of his life. Not only was Ruben's sleep fitful and marred by macabre nightmares of faceless little boys and deadly black vipers with their long, spearlike fangs, but there is a persistent pain that throbs in his shoulder; a sharp suffering which makes Ruben wince, his eyes squeezed shut for a fleeting moment. It is still early in the morning, and the nighttime gloom has been replaced by a pale misty gray, the forest awash with the early inklings of morning twilight.

_Ugh_, he thinks, carefully scraping a sleep crust out of the corner of his eye. _I'm not used to getting up this early_. Surely it was the structured regimen of the training center that led to such an abrupt shift in his sleeping schedule, but back home in Ten, Ruben often had a habit of going to bed late and sleeping long into the morning. _Or maybe it's the fear of getting stabbed in my sleep_, Ruben thinks sits up groggily and lifts a hand to his shoulder, gingerly removing its temporary bandage. The coffee filter has long since crusted over with the dried blood oozing from his wound, and it has stuck to Ruben's skin. _Disgusting_. Peeling off the layer causes Ruben to grit his teeth in a refusal to acknowledge the pain as the bandage separates from his raw skin.

He had only used a single filter, the other nine stowed in his small olive drab backpack. _I can't afford to waste any of these supplies_, he decided last night, taking inventory once away from prying eyes and the sharp blades of anyone who might be hunting him down. _I get a sense that the Careers aren't quite finished with me yet_, Ruben decides, trying to be rational. Ruben's finger grazes his wound, the flesh wet and jagged beneath his fingertips where Hela's spear had punctured through his shoulder. _I just have to out-hunt the seven of them. Out-hunt the Pack_.

His brows furrow in anger. The events of the bloodbath have been on a constant loop in his head, and touching his wound brings them back. He remembers Castiel's boastful taunting, the golden-haired boy spewing an acidic sort of vitriol from his mouth with a trajectory aimed at Ruben. He remembers Hela's icy green eyes that seemed to challenge him to put up a better fight, for him to compete with her in full, despite remaining largely untrained. _It was all a blur_, Ruben thinks, shaking his head. _It'll all be a blur when my damn life is on the line_. He hooks his thumbs under his chin and temples his fingers at the bridge of his nose, inhaling slowly to calm himself. The woods around him still smell damp and earthy, despite the rain having stopped early in the day after the bloodbath.

Ruben remembers Hela's clear, cold laugh, a heartless sound that raises a shiver up the sweaty skin of his spine; for at least Ruben's sense of heartlessness comes from ambition and acceleration, whereas the Career in question is one he deems a killer for sport and pridefulness alone. _Hunting the rest of us down has always just a sport for them_, he decides bitterly. _Why else would they volunteer?_ The Careers have been a staple of the Hunger Games for roughly the last fifteen years; yet another difficult obstacle that anyone unlucky enough to Reaped has to face. Whereas it is a game of survival for Ruben, it is a game of cat-and-mouse for the Careers, a group he is willing to associate with a philosophy of pain on the grounds that apart from Edward, Ruben assumes the other four cannons had sounded for the tributes whose corpses were created at the hands of the ever-merciless Career Pack. _And if Hela's reaction to being spit on is anything, I'm going to be royally fucked_. He groans softly, looking at the sky for some kind of salvation from the manhunt he is sure will ensue.

_But you're just as merciless as them, no?_ Gray's voice asks ever so sweetly in his ear, and Ruben shudders as if he can feel the ghost of his boyfriend's hot breath against his cheek. Ruben shrugs off the tethers of animosity that seem to hinder his every footstep, face twitching in irritation. _Gray would never talk to me like that_, Ruben chides himself, believing that the boy he left back home still sees him in the same light. It doesn't matter if he is merciless or not; killing is a necessary evil in the question of survival. Mercy is not the quality that is going to bring him back to his loving boyfriend, and mercy is not the quality that ensures he and Gray can get married under the hot summer sun in District Ten… _mercy_ will only ensure that Ruben comes home in an unmarked wooden box rather than a gleaming silver train carriage.

Mercy is a quality that will get Ruben Bolt killed, and his survival depends on ignoring whatever morality screams for him to keep the blood off his hands.

At the moment, the blood is on his body, crusted over after a night of rest. Ruben debates over dressing his shoulder wound with another temporary bandage in the form of a second coffee filter, but decides instead to save them in case it rains again. _Drinking water is more valuable, and if I move too much, it will probably tear the scab open again_, Ruben ponders, eventually giving up to assess the other wound he had acquired during the bloodbath, apart from the bruises Hela had given him. Ruben tries rolling up his pant leg, but sighs darkly when he cannot reach the injury.

He glances into the shadows around him, the forest slowly brightening as the slow emergence of the sun begins to banish away the gray haziness of morning twilight. There is no signs of any nearby tributes, but Ruben knows there is likely a camera fixed on him, broadcast on a livestream to his home district. The fleeting thought that Gray might be watching him is greatly diminished by the embarrassment Ruben feels as he awkwardly slides his pants down from his waist to check the knife wound Edward has given him inside the Cornucopia. _What a way it would be to die_, he thinks morbidly, _on a live broadcast with my pants around my fucking ankles_. The wound is still tender around the edges, it having bled non-stop yesterday - constant reminder of the life that Ruben had stolen - but today, the shallow cut has scabbed over from being immobilized for the last six or so hours.

_You killed Edward_. The thought echoes inside his head for a moment before Ruben buries his face in his hands, slowly dragging them down to his chin. At the time, Ruben can blame adrenaline for feeling remorseless for ending the younger boy's life. But now, it disturbs Ruben that he does not feel remorseful for his actions. _It's what I came into the arena knowing I needed to do_, he tells himself, calmly trying to justify what had happened. Mercy and remorse, two feelings worth less than the dust beneath his heels. But the feeling remains seated quietly in his stomach, a deep unease that comes from having acquired the knowledge of just how _differently_ it feels to have killed a boy instead of a dog. _But it's the simplest way to win_, Ruben reminds himself. _The simplest way to get home_.

Ruben curiously picks at the edge of the scab with his fingernail, trying to take his mind off of yesterday's events, and is mildly pleased when his finger does not feel any wetness from beneath the scab. _Good. Shallow enough to be healed on its own_. He did not think the wound serious enough to cause him lasting damage, apart from physical discomfort, but it is still a relief that Ruben will not have to manage multiple wounds at once. The injury to his shoulder is likely to be debilitating enough, and is something he may need to cope with until he can find the supplies necessary to heal himself, even if only temporarily.

He stands and stretches then, careful when rolling his injured shoulder, and grins softly, a small and dangerous smile that is sure to draw the attention of at least _one_ camera. Ruben has a plan for the morning, hopefully early enough to undertake the project before any of the other tributes wake from whatever uneasy sleep had stilled the cannons for the night. Ruben has looked over his supplies an endless number of times, making sure to ration them. To use only the _lightest_ touch of insect repellant on his skin or eating only a small handful from the bag of dried mixed fruit he had found among the contents of the backpack. But the sky has not answered his halfhearted prayers for some magical ointment to fix his shoulder, nor his desire for something substantial to fill his stomach. _Looks like I'll have to work for it, same as always_. It has always taken hard work to rise from the drudgery of society, and Ruben takes pride in his self-elevation, even if running a gang at Roscoe Black's side isn't the most honest of trades.

Ruben takes the hunting knife he had taken from Edward out of his backpack and uses it to section off a long piece of rope from the neat coil at the bottom of his bag. He tosses it over his shoulder and uses the knife to carefully saw off a low-hanging branch, using the blade's serrated top edge to cut through the wood.

Ruben deftly cuts a notched trigger from the branch and uses the length of rope to rig a snare, taking care to camouflage the trap to the best of his ability. _It doesn't cover me a lot of ground, but with any luck, it'll catch me something_. The snare - a station Ruben had paid attention to during training - should be useful in the sense that it almost doubles both his hunting capabilities and the ground he can cover at one time.

Once he is satisfied with his work, Ruben stands again and slings the pack over his broad shoulders. He had spent the previous day rigging three snares hidden in the brush, trying to keep himself on the move as much as possible so that he wouldn't run into any other tributes or threats. Lifting his longsword from where he had left it against a tree, Ruben takes off, leaving his resting area behind despite feeling a weary protest from his aching feet.

_Four snares might help me catch something to eat, yes_, Ruben acknowledges, swinging his sword at the back of the tree. It leaves a gash in the surface of the bark that allows him to easily recognize the tree from a distance. _But if I can make it work, it might just catch a tribute too_, Ruben thinks savagely. It would be a simple task to herd a terrified tribute toward his concealed snare trap, and even simpler to catch them.

He may not be a trained Career, but for Ruben, the hunt has begun.

* * *

**Filip 'Padds' Padderson **(**17**), **District 9 Tribute**

**7:15 AM**

Waking up is the easy part for him, leaving dreams of death and desperation behind in the mist of the night. Waking up stuck in the same hell is the hard part, as Padds learns when he is struck with the realization that he is all alone in the foreboding wilderness.

_Wh-where is Winston?_ He wonders blearily, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the back of his hands. Padds hastily stands up, turning in a short circle to look for any tell-tale signs of his last remaining ally only to be disappointed when he sees none. Padds briefly considers calling out to Winston, before realizing that his voice could be an open invitation for any unwanted predators prowling the depths of the forest. _Unarmed and alone_, Padds thinks scornfully. _Looks like Mom and Dad were right about you_. _Their eldest child, not even smart enough to make rational decisions_.

Padds sighs, slumping against the tangled roots of a tree. He rummages quietly through the pack he had grabbed in the middle of the bloodbath, darting in and out of the fray to make sure he had supplies, just like he and Winston had talked about the night before they had been launched into this accursed arena.

"_I don't want my chances of going home split in half just because we have to help them escape the bloodbath," _Padds recalls, his own voice quietly whispering these bitter nothings into his ear. _I always thought I could do better for the girls than I could for Challah and Kieran_. A scowl surfaces on Padds' face at the thought of another chalked-up failure, the faces of Arley and Bash swimming before his closed eyes in the same blue luminescence in which they had been framed during the broadcast. _Two dead, two left. Now one. Alone_.

Padds slowly takes things out of the backpack, it being the only source of supplies their alliance had managed to scrounge up during the first fifteen minutes of the Hunger Games. Everything seems to be in place, despite their supplies being slightly depleted from yesterday's demand. The half-pound bag of dried fruit had been shared between the two of them last night, and just by eyeballing it, Padds decides that the bag is still the same size as they had left it. _Roughly half full. We're going to need more food_, he thinks quietly. After all, they don't call it the 'Hunger Games' for nothing, and Padds doesn't want to overlook the crucial details. The only thing missing is one of the two plastic liter water bottles and the package of bandages that Winston had been sent by the sponsors last night.

The injury in his partner's leg is only a fraction of their losses yesterday, but the flesh wound was substantial enough that the pair had barely made it all the way to the river - that they had seen a glimmer of between the trees - before Winston collapsed. Padds remembers the raw fear that he had felt when Winston blacked out; his ally unresponsive and bleeding on the riverbank. _Two dead, two left. Now one. Alone_. The sponsors had sent in a forest green canister meant for Winston, the small package of bandages enclosed within being Padds' salvation from facing the threats of the arena alone. By the time Winston came to, Padds had already filtered water using the iodine pills, and the two drank heavily. _But supplies won't last forever_, Padds thinks morosely. He reaches a hand into the bag of dried fruit, deciding that it would be better to save the jerky for later, when hunger will inevitably become more of a problem. _More protein, more fuel_. Padds chews on a piece of the fruit, it leaving a slightly sour tang in the back of his throat.

It is the manual thoughts that have gotten him through almost the first twenty-four hours of the arena, instructing himself to eat, to drink. To build a small shelter for the two of them. _I don't want to think about what happened_, Padds admits to himself, trying to erase Arley's screams from where they have been burned into his mind. The feeling of guilt has already settled heavily in his chest, an unshakeable disquiet with the decision to run from the Careers and leave his district partner's fate up to their hands and blades. It simply will not do to dwell on what has happened, but despite Padds' best efforts, all he can think about is Hela's net descending in a silvery flash to take Arley down to the ground. _I don't want to know what her screams were caused by_. Was it Hela herself? Or was it the psuedo-Career, Asher? The uncertainty is what will haunt him, knowing that there could have been a million different ways to handle that situation.

Padds is not a coward, but the impulse to run had cost him an ally; an irreparable mistake in a place as dangerous as this one. _And Arley would have stuck with me, unlike Winston_. The distrust between the two boys had grown in the pauses and silences that yesterday held, each only speaking to relay instructions to the other. _Manual thoughts. Manual words_. He seals the bag of fruit, glad that the soft sounds of the forest mask the crackle of the plastic as he shoves it back into the backpack. Having traveled further up the banks of the river during the day yesterday, Winston was quick to point out that they could be sandwiched between Ruben to the north and Axel to the south, depending on how far into the dense woods the others had run.

They may not be Careers, but Padds remembers Ruben scored an eight during the private sessions, and Axel scored the same as Winston had, a seven. _Both higher than mine_. Scores may be arbitrary, but Padds believes them to be a decent guideline in deciding who he could stand his own against. _Learn to be rational_. The Games do not offer a second chance to the impulsive, a fact that Padds has been finding a hard time coping with. _Winston and I have better odds against them if we're together_.

Padds isn't sure where Winston has gone, nor why he has left, but he needs to find his ally. _Without him, I'm_

_one. Alone._ He quietly unsheaths the knife from where he found it in the backpack, it's silver blade still sharp and unused. With it in his hand, he feels safer somehow, as if he has a chance to defend himself. With a newfound confidence, Padds slings his backpack over his shoulder, electing to keep the supplies on his person. _Just in case_. It's not much, but anything is valuable. Padds chooses to follow the river, the only obvious landmark he has seen apart from the Cornucopia. _Winston isn't a dumbass, he'd follow the river too_. Trying his best to be rational - to be smart, the prized trait of his parents - Padds decides to go northward, away from the cliffside they had seen through the trees when running from the Cornucopia.

_North it is_. He walks for quite some time, listening intently for noises that might alert him to the whereabouts of his ally. The river seems to almost mask the sounds around him, a calm rushing noise that makes it hard to hear anything that may be coming from the trees, so Padds steps away, getting closer to the treeline. And then he hears it; a faint groaning noise coming from the bowels of the forest. An alarm signal is going off in his head somewhere, but Padds does not listen, instead creeping forward. _It's definitely a tribute_, he thinks, trying to see where the noise is originating from. Whether it is Winston, or someone else, he is entirely unsure, but the drive to find his ally propels him forward.

Padds has to let his eyes adjust for a moment from the glare of the sun on the surface of the river. Inbetween the trees, he sees a dark shape hovering ominously in the air, suspended by a thick length of rope. It takes him a second to realize that it is Winston, lifted by his ankle into the air by some sort of snare trap. Padds' eyes widen. "Shit, Winston!" he hisses through clenched teeth, breaking into a jog to reach his ally, who is alternating between fumbling with the tightly pulled trap and letting his hands fall, fingertips just barely brushing the forest floor. "What happened to you?" Padds asks him.

Winston groans again. "It's a trap," he says in a monotonous deadpan, almost glaring at Padds.

"I don't _have_ to get you down from there," Padds says crossly, surprised at how venomously the words come out. He brushes off the unspoken tension and moves in closer to Winston's suspended body, clutching the knife in one hand. "I don't know it it was meant to catch animals or tributes," Padds admits, "but try swinging toward the tree so you have a grip."

Winston obliges, and Padds begins to climb the tree himself, an arduous task since the only trees worth climbing in District Nine were the ones furthest from the grain fields, beyond the quiet thrum of the electric fence. Padds almost slips and takes a fall, but orients himself quickly, soon reaching a height in the tree where he feels comfortable overextending himself. With the knife, already slightly marred from using it to help dig handholds in the bark, Padds begins to saw at the rope that encircles his ally's ankle.

Winston has gone incredibly silent, to the point where a growing sense of unease has begun to unfurl in Padds' chest. The knife is sawing through the last fibers of the rope when a gravelly voice speaks, almost making Padds fall off the tree.

"Looks like I've caught another rabbit," Ruben says coldly, the flat blade of his longsword resting on his clavicle. Padds swallows thickly, and Winston spares a glance up at him, the tension in the air almost suffocating. _Leave him? Take him? Two dead, two left. Now one. Alone. _Padds grits his teeth and saws through the last fibers of the rope, and Winston goes slack, his body colliding with the tree as he scrambles for a foothold. A cry tears from his ally's lips as the jagged bark scrapes against his calf wound, and Winston crumples to the ground. Ruben advances slowly, chewing on the inside of his cheek, and swings the longsword through the air.

The whistling steel catches Padds off guard as the weapon slams into the tree just inches from his face, and he loses his grip, shouting in surprise. He hangs onto the knife like it is a lifeline, the blade dragging into the bark as he slides down to the forest floor. Winston has crabbed away from Ruben, and lunges for Padds, shoving him out of the way as Ruben brings down the sword again, his eyes blazing. The blade nicks Padds' outer coat, tearing the black fabric. He gasps and falls backward, helping Winston to his feet. The two duck underneath the low-hanging tree branches and run out toward the river; Padds hoping that Ruben will leave them alone. For once, his prayers are answered as the noises of the forest die behind him, drowned by the solemn gurgling of the river.

"Let's go, Winston," Padds says, trying to shake the feeling that they are still being carefully watched.

It's going to be a long day for both of them.

* * *

**Hela Mistlyre **(**18**), **District 2 Tribute**

**10:14 AM**

"_At least you know where he is, Hela,"_ Siren's voice echoes in her ears, a ringing call that had burrowed deep inside her mind throughout the sleepless night.

"_And look, I'm sure he's proud of you,"_ Siren had reassured her, a brief conversation held at the edge of last night's fire away from the ears of anyone else who might be listening. The Hunger Games mean more to Hela than any of the other volunteers - Career or not - a brutal fight to the death to earn herself the same honor and recognition she has been craving ever since she was a little girl, when 'father' is a more foreign word on her tongue than 'machete' or 'javelin.'

Hela blinks back angry tears, knowing deep inside her bones that Siren's words are masked white lies, spoken just to make her feel complacent with the way things have turned out. She almost glares at the sleeping form of her ally, the girl's back turned to Hela and the mouth of the Cornucopia. It had to be, especially after the bloodbath, when she is humiliated by the boy from District Ten, who Hela had taken on to help defend Castiel. _Your father fucking abandoned you for a reason, Hela_, she thinks glumly, chewing on the inside of her lip. _Don't let him make you into a fool_.

After all, a fool is the last thing Hela Mistlyre wishes to be taken for. She rolls over off the sleeping roll that had been laid out for her toward the back of the Cornucopia, knowing that she's up fairly late, but yesterday's events have taken the toll of exhaustion on her mind and body. _I'll be up early tomorrow_, she decides. Not only must she remain productive, but each day that passes in the arena runs the risk of the Career Pack fracturing at the seams; something Hela does not want to be on the wrong side of. She rubs the sleep from her eyes and pulls herself into a sitting position, the metal of the Cornucopia cold against her back despite how bright it seems to be outside.

_Reminds me of the Academy_, Hela thinks, reminiscing unfondly of the chilly room she had spent most of her life growing up in. But she doesn't take her back off the wall, instead letting the cold metal tense up her shoulders. _Lokir is all alone there now_, Hela ponders quietly, wondering what life might be like for her younger sister if she does not make it home. _No matter what gets thrown our way, we're family_, she remembers telling Lokir after fate led them into each others arms. Hela's hand slowly caresses the blue gemstone hanging from the end of her necklace, being the last thing her stony-faced sister gives her before the Peacekeepers separate them. "_Good luck,"_ Lokir had said. "_I won't need luck, sister,"_ had been Hela's reply, putting on the brave and haughty mask with which she faces the world.

_I don't think anyone could be proud of that_. She had believed her father, her trainers, _everyone_ would feel pride for Hela's actions, for the lethal machine she had become; but at what point does the killing machine drive out the woman inside her? Hela closes her eyes, letting out a slow and shaky breath. Family is, and has been, everything to Hela. Family is what will drive her to return, even if the fragmented group of teenagers around her is the closest she's ever felt to having one. _I've already got a family_, she thinks sadly. _It might be fucked up, and smashed to tiny pieces, but they aren't mine_. Hela stands slowly, flexing the ache from her calves as she slinks out of the Cornucopia, past Alton and Moses sleeping curled into each other. She stretches, letting the early morning sun strip away any doubts and insecurities that linger against the cold metal of the horn.

"Hey, Hela," calls Crescentia from across the small ring of stones they had set up outside the Cornucopia. Hela is taken by surprise for a split second, but regains her composure, raising her brows slightly as a way of acknowledging she heard the other girl. From her peripheral vision, Crescentia shrugs, and Hela hears a noise in her left ear. Her reflexes kick in and she catches the object that Crescentia has thrown just inches from her ear. Hela looks into the palm of her hand to find a bright red apple, the skin shiny and wet.

"We found a bag in one of the crates," Crescentia nods in her direction, a small grin forming across her lips. The other girl brushes a strand of blonde hair from her eyes, pointing to the crate behind Hela.

"Thanks," Hela says curtly, raising it to her lips to take a bite. She stops as soon as her teeth break the skin, her eyes flicking to Crescentia. _Would they poison these?_ She thinks, the thought sharply cutting into her thoughts. Hela hesitates for a second before taking a bite, choosing instead to trust the process. _It's day two, and trust can go a long way_. Hela crosses over and sits next to Crescentia, but where the girl from District One is facing the Cornucopia, Hela faces the forest instead, her eyes roaming it's dark green depths.

She can feel Crescentia's eyes on her, which makes Hela feel slightly uncomfortable, but she does not draw her coat closer to her, instead removing it and pushing the sleeves of the nylon windbreaker up to her elbows. It is pine green, a shade closely resembling her eyes. _And one that might closely resemble some of those trees, too_. Hela folds the overcoat on the edge of the log next to her and takes another bite from the apple, quietly contemplating what the day - or perhaps the Gamemakers - has in store for them.

"You're going hunting with Castiel later, yeah?" Hela asks, feeling a surge of awkwardness in her stomach. _Wit, not casual conversation, is my wheelhouse_.

"Yeah," says Crescentia. "I'm not sure when he wants to go, since he left with Asher a little earlier," she explains rather quietly, her voice on edge.

Hela shrugs, chewing pensively while she scans the woods for any sign of their return. "Are you nervous?"

The other girl goes still for a moment beside her, and Hela twists to glance over her shoulder. "It's not like Castiel's taking you away to put a sword through your head," she jokes. "Let alone a on a picnic or anything." She barks out a laugh. "Try to relax, Cres."

The nickname feels weird on her tongue, having only listened to Siren and Moses call her by it, but it seems to put Crescentia at ease. The other girl nods her head. "I'm just… I think Castiel is wondering why I didn't manage to take down District Five yesterday morning," Crescentia admits. "I think he's questioning my place as a Career."

It's a rather bold line from her, Hela will admit. But when Crescentia recieved a _one_ in training, both she and Moses had exchanged a confused look. Hela vaguely remembers Crescentia's choice to volunteer causing a minor upset from the crowd, whereas Hela herself had the entire stage to herself. But, like the thought of poisoned apples, Hela dismisses it. _She might not have been selected to compete, but she's been trained. That's enough for me_. "Castiel might just be trying to see where your head is at," she says calmly. "Look at everyone else," Hela murmurs, dropping the apple core from her hand and into the grass. "Moses and Alton are practically joined at the hip. You and Siren get along better than the rest of us," Hela explains, not needing to mention the waltz the two girls had performed on the second night of training.

"And you and Asher are pretty close too," Crescentia nods. Hela's lip quirks in distaste, and she is glad that her ally is facing the other way. _But how close are we, truthfully?_ Hela's head has been reeling ever since the kiss they had shared on the balcony, when Asher winds his calloused hand through her hair, kissing her hungrily under the stars until she surprises him by slipping her tongue into his mouth, his shock almost electrical against her skin. It is a moment Hela is _never_ going to forget for as long as she still breathes.

"Yeah," is all she manages to say, her stomach a yawning pit of uncertainty. _Asher and I were going to go hunting today too_, she recalls, his voice gravelly when they speak of it over the fire. Hela had agreed, intending to make good on the promises of a show she had vowed to give their Capitolite audience. "Kind of had to be, when everyone jumped ship for Castiel." It isn't meant to be a bitter statement, but the words come out sharper than Hela would like.

"Hela, it's not like that," Crescentia tells her, the words hanging in the empty air between them, for they both remember the night of the parade, when Castiel elects himself leader and everyone else falls in line behind him, despite Hela knowing in her bones that she deserves the role and all the glory that comes with it.

"It's fine," Hela says, the swagger having died off her voice. She swallows thickly, looking Crescentia deep into her eyes. "I know it's not. It's just hard for me…" she trails off, unsure as to why she's telling Crescentia this. "I expected a lot of things to go differently after I volunteered. Call it idealism, but I guess I'm not sure anymore."

Crescentia nods, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she swivels on the log, now facing the same direction as Hela. "I think we all expected things to go a little differently," Crescentia says sagely, lifting her head toward a slight breeze coming through the trees that stand in the near distance.

Hela follows Crescentia's gaze, and spots two figures emerging from the frontier. _Asher and Castiel_. Her heart skips a beat, and Hela doesn't know whether or not she's ready to face another day of unbearable discomfort between them. "Looks like he's carrying something," Crescentia nods to her district partner, who has a large brown shape slung over his shoulder.

On cue, Castiel shouts at them from across the short distance. "Asher and I caught… killed a _deer_!" he shouts breathlessly, and the Wolfchild grins. Hela is about to answer his cry when she sees Asher's hands.

"What the _hell_ are those, Asher?" Hela asks incredulously, gesturing at his hands. He's wearing tight black leather gloves with curved titanium claws between the knuckles that are roughly an two inches longer than his fingers.

"A gift," the Wolfchild says, winking at her. "I guess the sponsors are in our favor," he says candidly. But when she meets his eyes, she sees the white-hot fire in his irises. _This is a deadly favor_. Asher had talked about similar claws that he had tried to bring as a token, lamenting over their confiscation. _And now he has them again_.

"Yeah," Castiel says, dropping the carcass of the deer unceremoniously onto the ground. Hela's eyes catch claw marks around its throat, and a delicious shiver runs up her spine. "Asher got them from sponsors about an hour after we had left," Castiel nods, sitting on one of the logs and wiping sweat from his forehead. Both of the boys are sweaty and red, likely after hours of chasing animals. _Or tributes_. He gestures to the deer. "Then we killed it."

Crescentia whistles, clearly impressed. "Might be nice to have something other than bread and whatever else we can scrounge up," she admits, though Hela sees her slightly wrinkle her nose. _I've never eaten deer either, but venison _has _to beat the broth Moses made last night_. Going to bed on an empty stomach with the taste of chicken bouillon at the back of her mouth had been less than a pleasant experience.

Castiel nods. "It's gotta be close to noon," he says. "I know you two and Moses were up pretty late," he addresses the girls, "so how about we wake up Four and see if they mind butchering the poor bastard?"

They nod in general assent; clearly there are other plans that have been put in place for the four of them. "Crescentia, you and I will go hunting later tonight, around dusk. I figure we might see more tributes taking advantage of the shadows… Asher and I didn't see anyone except the girl from Twelve, but she outran us." He takes a long sip of water from a canteen, breathing hard. "I figure the two of us can search the same area. Her ally from Eleven had a limp, from what I can remember, and I think Siren killed her tall district partner. Should be easy pickings," he says, lips tugging into a grin.

"Asher and I are going to go hunting _now_," Hela interjects. "We'll leave them for you. I'm more interested in finding one of the Tens."

"Or finishing off the guy from Seven," Asher says slowly as he flexes his gloved hands; Hela noticing that the curved claws already have a thin veneer of blood crusted onto them.

"Come on, Wolf Boy," Hela says, a frosty undertone in her voice. "You and me." She grabs her spear and net where they had been retired against the side of the Cornucopia. A feeling of predatory anticipation settles in her gut as she turns to face the three of them, her mind and body hard as steel.

"Let's go hunting for tributes."

* * *

**Siren Thalassa **(**17**), **District 4 Tribute**

**10:59 AM**

It's the smell that makes Siren want to throw up.

The hunting knife that Alton handed her is slick with blood, clots of congealed gore clinging to the serrated spine of the blade. Siren resists the urge to vomit as she digs the knife back into the muscle of the deer, sawing through a tendon with a grimace on her face. _I'm glad I wasn't there when they killed the deer_, Siren decides. It would have reminded her too much of Reynolds, and how his body had gone slack once she had strangled the life from him during the bloodbath. Siren shivers, but not from the need to don her windbreaker, the blackberry purple garmet draped carelessly nearby on one of the logs. _It's from all the death and destruction_, she thinks haplessly.

"Why the hell can't Castiel or Asher clean their own deer?" Siren asks aloud, pressing the back of her hand against her lips. _You can't run away from it. _No matter how hard she might try, the inevitable truth is that death is the only fuel with which Siren can propel herself further in the Hunger Games.

The blood has formed thick puddles in the grass, and Siren wants to reel at how uncomfortable it is to kneel in it. _How am I supposed to get clean after this?_ It's not like there is an adjacent ocean that she can dive into; instead, it is a sticky red sea that makes her heart pound in disgust and apprehension. Her fingers too, are coated in a slippery red that has begun to coalesce underneath her fingernails, leaving filthy red crescents that Siren is convinced she will never be able to pick out for as long as she remains alive and breathing, unlike the half-butchered carcass beneath her.

Moses grunts, shaking his head, and quickly hacks off one of the deer's haunches with his sword, the blade cutting quickly through the carcass. The butchering process had begun roughly around the time that the three of them had been shaken awake by Crescentia, who had tried to politely apologize for it. _And now she and Castiel and off collecting firewood_, Siren thinks scornfully. _Why leave the dirty work up to us?_

Moses is shirtless beside her, his muscles gleaming with sweat from the overhead sun, and Siren has to force herself not to stare at his sculpted musculature, indulging herself in a fleeting act of apodyopsis as she imagines what Moses might look like with the rest of his clothes taken off. _He might be bisexual, but he's with Alton_, Siren reminds herself. With the romances that have begun to steadily blossom within the Career Pack, Siren has been finding herself increasingly disappointed that neither Castiel nor Crescentia - the availiable options - seem remotely interested in pursuing a relationship with her. _And I'm pretty sure whatever sausage party is going on with Alton and Moses isn't inclusive to any outsiders_.

Siren sighs in frustration, blowing a strand of hair out of her face so she doesn't have to use her hands, caked in red, to move it. "Because they're too damn busy running off and acting like they run the show," Moses answers her, shaking his head scornfully. "That's just the way it's beginning to pan out."

"You really think so?" Siren queries. The notion of being excluded in yet another sense is beginning to get underneath her skin, and she huffs angrily at the _stupid_ deer carcass, wishing she could just pick it up and chuck it back in the forest for Castiel or Asher to find.

"Well, I don't think it's like that," Alton says from his perch on one of the logs, watching the woods for any signs of returning allies or overconfident foes. "At least I highly doubt it," Alton admits rather begrudgingly as he catches Siren's murderous glare.

"Of course I think so," Moses grunts, standing up and tossing the haunch of venison onto a small tarp they had laid out so that the raw meat wouldn't touch the grass. "Come on, Alton. Think about it. District One's mentors would probably be happy to have them walk all over the rest of us given what happened last year. Why else do you think Castiel jumped on the first opportunity to play leader? Not to mention that Hela and Asher are always off doing something else entirely."

"Probably fucking plotting how to kill us all in our sleep," Alton mutters. "Maybe you're right," he says, voice a little louder. "Asher frustrates the living hell out of me." Alton scratches his tricep, a sheepish look on his face. "You both know that."

"None of them could give a shit about what goes on back here. They're all just chasing their dreams of glory," Siren nods, beginning to feel rather resolute in her stance on how the alliance has begun to feel.

"Yeah, I know. And I'm fucking _sick_ of sitting around doing _nothing_ all the time! I didn't sign up for the Hunger Games to play housemaid and clean up everyone elses messes!" Moses suddenly shouts, flinging his sword in sidearm fashion into the grass. "I'm just as strong as the others, I'm just as smart, just as capable…" the Career trails off, shaking as he struggles for words.

Alton closes the distance between himself and the shorter boy from Two, wrapping his arms around Moses' midsection and nestling his head in the crook of Moses' shoulder, trailing kisses up his neck and chin. "We know, Moses," Alton says gently, his voice wavering slightly. "You don't have to prove it to us." The two meet each other's gaze, and Siren can tell that there is a lot left unsaid, that might have surfaced had she not been present. _This is what we get for raising children to be killers_, she thinks. _They get a lifetime of sadness and insecurity_.

But maybe it's insecurity that is what has drawn Siren to the Careers to begin with; after Alton shakes her hand on the train and proclaims himself as the future Victor of the 29th Hunger Games. "_We're going to have to stick together on this one,"_ Alton had whispered as the chrome doors of the train opened up to the roaring crowds of perfumed Capitolites, "_or the Career Pack is going to kill us."_ Reaped tributes from Four have - recently, at least - stood less of a chance in the Hunger Games than trained volunteers; and Siren knows that following Alton's invitation allows her to exploit the benefits that being a member of the Careers would offer her. _The ends justify the means, and sometimes you must do things that aren't good just to make sure you see another day._

Siren recalls following Crescentia on the training floor, looking to find her own place within the alliance. _I'd labeled her a Bimbo on the train_, Siren remembers; the arbitrary labelling being a judgemental habit that Siren is guilty of. But in the time she has grown to know Crescentia, she has uncovered much more about the girl than initial impressions had led her to believe. _"I'm not the most trained person here either,"_ Crescentia had confessed on the first day of training. "_We'll have to keep up with the rest then, no?"_ had come Siren's quick response. It has been her story of the last week since her name was pulled from the Reaping bowl and no volunteers step forward; always a step behind and beside, trying to keep up and secure her position with the other Careers. _Maybe it's my own insecurity too, then_, Siren decides. She remembers her conversation with Hela last night, one that weighs heavy in her mind as she strips the hide of the deer from it's flank, pulling up tendrils of silvery connective tissue that makes her need to pause again, lest she double over and vomit.

_I don't have anyone in my life. I don't even know who my damn dad is_, Siren thinks angrily, using the anger to help her strip the rest of the hide off with a little help from her hunting knife. It has always bothered her, that she should grow up alone in the Community Homes with nothing but rumors surrounding her birth and stares accompanying her visage. _Maybe this is my last-ditch attempt at a family, no matter how fucked up it is_, considers Siren.

Moses holds Alton's arm to his own ribs almost tenderly, as if nothing could stop their embrace, and Siren feels a pang of loneliness in her heart. She quickly gets off her knees and picks up the butchered venison, dropping it on the tarp. "If Castiel wants more off that carcass, he can do it himself," Siren declares. But looking down at the ragged corpse, all she can see is Reynolds' limp body, slick with rain and mud, a bitter smile stretched across his face.

She makes no effort to stop the tears, pressing her lips together firmly and turning her body away from the two male Careers. _I never expected taking a life to be this hard_, she thinks, unable to stop her body from shaking. "Siren?" asks Alton, voice laced with concern. "Hey, are you alright?" Siren shakes her head, unable to wipe the tears from her face since her hands and forearms are covered in blood. She hears footsteps crunching on grass behind her, coupled with the sound of fabric ripping, and moments later Moses is offering her a black polyester rag torn from the sleeves of his short sleeve undershirt, which he has draped over his shoulder, using the other sleeve to wipe the blood from his own hands. Alton joins the two quietly, using one of Crescentia's plastic water bottles to soak the sleeve-rags. Siren accepts it gratefully, wiping the blood from her forearms. It smears and leaves streaks, but after wringing the rag out on the grass, she is able to finally wipe her forearms clean, though they still feel heavy with a phantom coating of red.

Once it is meticulously cleaned from her forearms, Siren is able to wipe the tears from her blurry eyes. "I'm sorry," she says hollowly. "I shouldn't have… I shouldn't have gotten so worked up over a damn deer," she admits. "But I haven't been able to sleep yet without my dreams being haunted by… by…"

The silence she is met with is deafening.

"By Reynolds?" Alton asks gently, voice wavering again as he breaks the silence. She catches his gaze and nods, biting her lip, though there is no longer the usual seductive persuasion in the gesture.

"Yeah," she says quietly, eyes downcast. "I keep remembering what he said in his interview, about… about volunteering so that he could save someone's life, since he wanted to kill himself… how he wanted to throw himself of the Training Center roof… I can't stop thinking about how complacent he was when I killed him," Siren confesses. "I choked the life out of him, and when I rolled him over and the light left his eyes, he _smiled_ at me," she says, the words feeling like heavy stones pressed against her chest.

"I don't think I can take another life." _Dead weight is what you are, then._ Panem itself is built on the totalitarian foundation of a dog-eat-dog philosophy, but despite Siren preparing herself for the worst and most macabre situations, she had never once thought to prepare herself for dealing in death.

"I don't think I'm ready to put another kid in a coffin."

* * *

**Halley Verron **(**12**), **District 8 Tribute**

**11:34 AM**

_They're reaching out to her, their spectral arms alight in a dusky flickering orange; tongues of flame that curl and slither across their bodies like ethereal serpents. Halley shields her eyes from the flames, the light harsh in her eyes. "Mom…? Dad…?" she asks, stretching out a hand to touch them in a horrific sense of wonder._

_Her parents stand still beneath the dark canopy, their palms facing the starry sky as if they wish to take her own hands within theirs and spirit her away elsewhere. But Halley can feel the heat that radiates from their bodies, the flames roaring and crackling around them, and when she draws her hand away, they burn and crumble into ash, silent specters scattered on the wind_.

Halley shakes her head, erasing the memory of the recurring dream from her mind. It is the same one she had in the Justice Building, having fallen asleep on the couch when the door stays firmly shut and no one comes to visit her. _Of Mom and Dad from beyond the grave_. Halley shivers, the flames still bright against the backs of her eyelids, and hugs herself tightly, arms wrapping around her thin frame. The stars above have since dissipated into the morning sun, leaving a hollow feeling in Halley's stomach that only grows more cavernous when she quietly ups and leaves Darnius asleep in the sycamore tree. "_Here I was, thinking I'm a dead man walking," _she remembers her district partner saying. "_You don't know how good it is to see you alive."_ Halley sighs, the perturbed feeling in her stomach having remained persistent all day.

"But tomorrow's a different day, you know?" she says aloud, the shared words of hopefulness falling stale and sour in the air around her. Today may be a different day, but the future still remains grim and uncertain. _Not to mention I feel bad for leaving him again_. It is not in her nature to make easy friends, but the boy is a breathing reminder of the things she has been wrenched away from, as miserable as they may have become. Halley slips her hand into the pocket of her black cargo pants, finding her tribute token nestled comfortably at the bottom. _Without him, this is all I have left_. Despite their differences, Halley is able to take solace in the fact that she had left him both one of her plastic liter water bottles with a few iodine pills in it, as well as the remaining two biscuits that she hadn't eaten in the morning.

Halley's hand closes around the token and she draws it out with her dexterous fingers. It is a small and lustrous pearl, about the size of her thumbnail, that Halley stole off a structure in the Justice Building after she is shaken awake by a Peacekeeper clad in white armor. Halley remembers slipping it into her pocket as she is marched to the train, but throughout the duration of her time spent training in the Capitol, the pearl remained secured beneath her mattress at the foot of the bed, as if someone was going to sneak into her room and take the last little piece of District Eight she has left.

It may not be a piece of the home that burned down in a great conflagration, but nevertheless it serves as a reminder of the life Halley could be propelled into, one of pearls and a crown of laurels resting upon her mousy brown hair. Halley pockets the pearl again, wondering if perhaps there is a way for her to use it to her advantage; often, some Career tributes in the past have gotten creative with their tokens, but nothing immediately comes to mind, so Halley pockets it.

The canopy above is lighter now, and dappled with rays from the sun, a myriad of greens and yellows that helps her dispel thoughts of the dark and jagged leaves that her parents had stood under in the dream. Halley is sitting with her back against a tree, eyes kept cautiously as she raises her lips to the rim of the water bottle, taking a careful sip. The water had been taken from a narrow creek and purified. Halley remembers the trainers explaining that usually running water is safe to drink, however, in her book it is better to be safe than sorry, especially with any tricks that the Gamemakers might have pulled. _Besides, the arena seems too… simple_, Halley thinks, her eyes scanning the undergrowth. _How many times has a forest been done before?_

Either way, she is grateful for the coverage that it provides. Halley would rather keep stealth on her side, as operating on the nighttime streets has offered her near exceptional vision in the dark. She has not covered much ground today, only leaving to put some distance between herself and Darnius. _It must be what, noon?_ Halley wonders, judging the position of the sun from between the leaves. _I haven't heard a cannon all day. _That could bode well for Halley, if the Careers aren't hunting yet. But the longer the Games go without a cannon, the more unsatisfied their bloodthirsty Capitolite audience becomes.

_And dissatisfaction is a fast track to having mutts unleashed_. Halley still remembers the nightmares she used to have about some of the muttations the previous Head Gamemaker had set free into the arena. _I needed Mom to comfort me from thinking about all the damn teeth it had_, she thinks sadly, a mixture of lingering fear and sorrow growing in her chest. Halley sets her water bottle down, unzipping her backpack to stow it inside, next to the untouched bag of assorted dried fruits. The sight of them makes her stomach growl, but Halley zips up the backpack before she can have second thoughts. _I need to ration these. Or I need to scavenge for something in their stead_, she ponders.

Halley briefly considers stealing from the Careers, who must be sitting on a goldmine of unused resources. But throwing herself to the wolves is a surefire way to get killed. _Or is it?_ Thievery is not an uncommon concept to the ranks of orphans and street rats living in Eight, and it isn't one that has evaded Halley's repertoire either. She still remembers the fateful night, when the chilly winter wind had begun to make the streets a living hell. _The mink coat looked so enticing too_, Halley remembers, recalling the coat that had been folded over on the edge of Miss Lylanis' reception desk.

Trying to steal the coat in broad daylight had led Halley to being caught red-handed by the proprietor of the homeless shelter. _And Miss Lylanis never played any games_. The woman had caught Halley by the wrist and reprimanded her for trying to steal such a fine jacket, which Halley had assumed to be donated. _I'm still convinced it was and Miss Lylanis just wanted it for herself, though,_ Halley muses. The incident had led to a bed being opened for Halley to sleep in that winter, and an odd sort of friendship between the two women.

_After all, it was Miss Lylanis who stitched up my arm_. Halley subconsciously runs her finger along the scar, a raised line that twists from forearm to shoulder. Halley had been caught stealing from some official or other, a pretty golden watch that she could surely trade for more than a mouthful. _That damn Peacekeeper chased me for four blocks_, she reminisces, and not fondly. It had been a harrowing escape to the homeless shelter, arm bleeding from his bladed nightstick. _But it's easy for someone like me to blend in_. Miss Lylanis had taken her into one of the cramped bathrooms and turned on the faucet, cleaning blood from the wound. "_That's a nasty cut, Halley,"_ she had sympathized. "_You ought to be more careful next time."_

The curator of the homeless shelter had looked her up and down. "_Have you ever seen the Capitol, Halley?"_ she had asked. "_Would you ever want to visit? It's a gorgeous city..."_ It was questions like those that began growing Halley's distrust of the woman, when each and every gesture of hospitality became accompanied with coaxing for Halley to accompany Miss Lylanis on a _special trip_ to the Capitol.

It may not have been foul play - she still isn't sure - but Halley has always known leaving District Eight for the Capitol meant death, like the droves of innocent lambs offered up each year to their systematic slaughter at the hands of the Hunger Games. _And here I am, breezing through it all like I'm a little lamb offered up on a silver platter. Just like Miss Lylanis would have wanted._ The thought alone makes Halley incredibly infuriated, and her hands close into clenched fists at the mere thought of it all, her small frame shaking.

_I am so much more than a lamb meant to be offered up to some paltry gods above_.

It is this thought, as the hour wears on and Halley listens quietly to the sound of psithurism between the trees, that drives her to make the decision. "I'm going to steal from the Careers," she says aloud, talking to herself. The thought sits in her head, marinating, before Halley's resolve hardens. "I'm going to steal from the _fucking_ Careers." The natural order of the arena has always determined the predators remain at the top of the chain, and the Careers are, after all, the deadliest of the predators. _But why let them hoard all the wealth?_ _Why should they get to be comfortable while the rest of us starve and bleed out?_

It is early in the Hunger Games, Halley knows. But despite the show just beginning, maybe a daring stunt is what she needs to earn another sponsor. _And the less comfortable I can make the Careers, the better my chances might be_. She's seen some of the Career Packs in earlier years fall apart at the slightest hint of betrayal, and missing valuable resources might just tear this one apart. After all, any observant eyes could see the disquiet among their fractured ranks during days spent in the Training Center, and her own emerald ones have seen it for herself.

It's risky, sure. _But so was stealing the mink coat._ The hundreds of little things Halley has picked from pockets and stolen have helped her survive throughout her four years on the streets. "How is this any different?" she muses aloud. Sure, the odds are drummed up tenfold, but the price has always been the same.

_Being caught costs my life_.

Halley stands slowly, watching the sun in the sky. She had run directly south of the Cornucopia, and meandered west in search of Darnius. _Doubling back away from him should put me on the right track again,_ she decides. There was a massive tree she had been able to orient herself with yesterday, the branches seeming to tower over the rest of the trees almost directly south of the Cornucopia. Beyond the landmark, Halley had been stopped this morning by a sheer cliff, a ravine opening at the end of the creek she collected water from. As far as her eyes could see, the ravine opened into a valley, the cliffs stretching in either direction for quite a while, with a glittering blue river winding through the ground below.

Walking back in the direction she had come from should take Halley toward the Cornucopia, so she picks up her backpack and slings it over her shoulder, beginning the march in the other direction. _It's going to be a problem that the Cornucopia is surrounded by open field_, Halley decides. Her best hope is that some of them have left to go hunting, either for tributes or animals, it matters not to her.

If not, the high visibility is going to be the death of her. Luckily, Halley remembers watching the Careers train with their weapons, and knows that the girls from Two and Four use spears; the girl from One seemed to like throwing knives but didn't seem terribly accurate to Halley. The four male Careers had all trained with a variety of non-ranged weapons. "So if Two and Four aren't there, I just have to outrun everyone else and make it to the trees," Halley surmises, muttering to herself as quietly as possible, the words like whispers on her lips.

She stops at the edge of the forest, the trees swaying sentinels above her head, watching for any potential dangers. The dense undergrowth grows sparser toward the treeline; eventually vanishing into the flatland that the Cornucopia rests on, ever bright and glittering warmly beneath the noon-time sun. Halley crouches low, keeping behind the brush, and strains her neck to look upon the golden horn.

There are a few insects that buzz around her, and she slaps at them with a frustrated sigh before returning her gaze to the Cornucopia. The mouth of the horn is at a slight angle, but Halley can see the layout well enough. Most of the crates that had been laying outside the Cornucopia have been salvaged and moved inside, but there are a few lidless ones that still look damp, drying out in the sun. Halley tries to get a good look inside the horn, but the shadows and crates obscure her view. Apart from any Careers that might be inside the structure, she spots one sitting on a log and two crouched over in the grass, seeming to work at something. A flash of silver catches her interest, and Halley's eyes widen as she sees a spray of blood. _Are they killing a tribute?_ She pauses, waiting for the cannon, but hears none.

_Focus on the task at hand_, Halley instructs herself. All three of the Careers seem to have their attention focused on whatever is bleeding in front of them; the boy from Two and both from Four looking completely distracted. _Good_. Halley creeps forward quietly, unzipping her backpack slightly and still sticking close like a shadow to the undergrowth. She works her way in a large winding circle, trying to position herself to run at the side of the horn. _Deep breaths. Deep breaths._ Halley tries to ignore the fact that there are surely several cameras that have picked up on her scheme. "No pressure," she whispers.

And then Halley is flying, the military boots heavy as she sprints across the open field, keeping her back as parallel with the ground as possible. Her ponytail whips in the wind behind her, so Halley hastily flips up her hood as she runs, slowing to a jog once she reaches the side of the Cornucopia. She slows to a halt, breathing hard, and unsheaths her knife from its place in her belt. She keeps her eyes trained in front of her, toward the mouth of the Cornucopia, desperately hoping she hasn't been seen. _Fuck, fuck, fuck! This is stupid. This is dangerous. What the hell are you doing, Halley?_ she asks herself, crouching low and trying to still her breathing. She counts to three, and hearing no disturbances, creeps forward quietly, keeping as low to the ground as possible. Halley reaches the lip of the Cornucopia and sees two crates sitting next to each other, the wood casing still damp with rain.

Clutching her knife with one hand, Halley peeks over the edge of the crate at the three Careers, all still engrossed in their task. They are all talking, but she doesn't listen, instead slowly tilting the nearest crate toward herself. Inside, she finds an assortment of medical supplies; a few packages of bandages, a packet of antiseptic ointment, a small tub of burn cream, and a bottle of ten ipecac pills. Halley steadily removes the supplies from the crate, her gaze flicking back and forth between the task at hand and the three Careers just a short distance away. _I'll need to head back and give Darnius one of these bandages for his hand,_ Halley realizes, having cut his hand the night before when he lunges at her unexpectedly in the shadows of twilight.

Underneath a flimsy cardboard layer, Halley finds a package of ten coffee filters, a bag of beef jerky, and a packet of fifty matches next to a tiny bottle of kerosene. Halley starts to shake, a shiver sliding down her spine at the thought of _using_ the fire-starting materials, and instead she hurriedly takes the coffee filters and jerky, stowing them in her backpack.

There are tremors in her hands, but when Halley begins to set the crate down and move on, it slips from her grasp and hits the grass with a muffled thud. She ducks behind the two crates quickly and listens, her breath bated and tense.

"Did you two hear that?" the boy from Two asks. His voice sounds like he is facing her now, and Halley holds the knife tighter, praying he does not come to investigate the source of the noise.

"No," the boy from Four says, his voice lighter than the other's. "What did you hear, Moses?" he asks curiously. Halley hears one of them getting closer and bites back a scream. _If you run now, you'll be dead._

"I think I heard another tribute," Moses says, his voice tapering off as he gets closer to her.

_If you stay, you'll be dead_.

But it is already too late; the boy from Two has stopped at the crates, looking down at her with a battle-axe held loosely in his hands. He silently eyes the crate, her knife and the backpack, his dark brown eyes holding a surprisingly but equally chilling look of boredom in them. He isn't wearing a shirt, his muscles rippling under his dark and lustrous skin. _He could snap me like a twig_, Halley thinks, swallowing thickly. _And he's one of the shorter Careers_.

"Anything?" calls the girl from Four, her voice lilting and smooth. The boy from Two turns and shakes his head in the direction of the voice. There is a pause, and Halley's heart is beating a mile a minute, her stomach twisted in knots. Moses shakes his head in disdain and raises his free hand, pointing back toward the woods.

_He's letting me go? _She wonders, eyes darting back and forth. He almost nods in affirmation, the gesture subtle, and then turns his back on Halley, disappearing from view. Halley doesn't need to be told twice; she stands quickly and runs back the way she came, heart hammering against her ribs.

Emerging from the woods to her left, the golden-haired tributes from District One begin breaking into a sprint toward her. "There's a tribute stealing from us!" shouts the boy, Castiel, his voice shocked and angry. Halley freezes, hearing an indignant shout from the boy from Four behind her, who stands quickly and rises to the occasion with a morningstar in hand. The girl from One drops an armful of firewood in surprise, before her district partner gives her a gleeful smirk, and terror spears through Halley's gut at his next words.

"Looks like we'll be going hunting early, Crescentia."

Halley is caught blinded by the headlights, and she breaks into a mad dash for the shelter of the woods, his words ringing in her ears like knives.

* * *

**Tangaria Roolch **(**17**), **District 11 Tribute**

**1:25 PM**

It's been three hours since Mariela had fled from the two Career boys, but Tangaria feels like there isn't enough distance in the world she can put between the two of them and the Careers.

She stops, legs screaming, and rests her back against the bark of a tree, closing her eyelids and taking a deep breath, inahling the musty forest air. It has been a trial and a half to keep up in stride with her younger ally; Tangaria's right ankle is aching, her old injury sending sharp, stabbing pains up the side of her leg. _We've been on the move too much_, she knows. But it can hardly be helped, when threats lurk around every corner. If it were up to Tangaria, she would prefer to travel at night and rest during the day, making sure to stay out of harm's way for as long as possible. _It's not sensible to be running around the woods during the day_, Tangaria bemoans herself. _We're just going to get more attention drawn to ourselves_.

"I'm going to scout out the area," Mariela says quietly, her voice lowered almost to a whisper. "Will you be alright, Tangaria?" Mariela asks pointedly, eyes straying to the other girl's leg. Tangaria waves her off, perhaps a bit too aggressively, and Mariela disappears into the trees. Tangaria sighs and slowly lowers herself to the ground, trying to take some pressure off her ankle. _I knew my limp was going to be an issue_, Tangaria thinks ruefully, _but damn_.

Her eyes feel hot and prickle with tears, but she blinks them back, instead using her hands to steady and massage her ankle through the boot. _Don't cry, Tangaria_, she instructs herself. _If you cry, Talitha will see, and she'll know that you aren't capable of upholding your promise_.

Volunteering for her sister is a hasty decision, and one that feels _right_. But as time drags on in this arena, her mind full of fear and pressure, her body aching and sore… Tangaria is no longer sure that offering herself up to the slaughter was a rational decision. _It's too much. All of it_, she thinks, rubbing the tears from her eyes so that they don't fall and create splotches on her jacket. She adjusts the dark sage green silk scarf that her youngest sister had given her in the dark confines of the Justice Building. _Something to cling to_. Tangaria has wrapped it around her head, tying it in a knot just above her the signature braid she wears each day back home under the hot sun. _The home you might never get to go back to_.

_Sponsors aren't going to like it if you cry either,_ Tangaria reminds herself as she can feel the tears welling up in her eyes again. She holds the canister of bread she had been sponsored this morning underneath her arm, the dusky rose color camouflaged against her windbreaker. _They like someone strong, someone they can root for. Someone who is strong._

_Not a lousy cripple from District Eleven_.

_Not a useless ally who couldn't save Reynolds._

His death had haunted Tangaria's dreams last night, her mind replaying the Career, Siren, kneeling on top of Reynolds' back, twisting the straps of a backpack around his throat. She remembers watching Reynolds hand scrabble for purchase, clawing through the mud as if he could drag himself away and take a breath of air. _But he wasn't strong enough, and I couldn't save him._ It isn't fair, not in the slightest, that someone like Tangaria should survive the carnage and someone like her ally Reynolds should not, when he had just begun to overcome his poisonous past, ridding himself of the afflictions that plagued his mind and made him seek comfort in dragging a blade across his skin rather than finding it in the arms of someone who cared.

The tears flow freely now, and Tangaria is powerless to stop them. Reynolds' ghostly face swims behind her shut eyelids, bathed in the amaranthine light of the death recap. _He's gone. _It is a small relief that Reynolds did not die of his own machinations, but it isn't enough to outweigh the fact that she watched it happen and just _stood_ there as he died.

But that's what has to happen for her to get home, isn't it? Mariela will have to die too, no matter how deeply Tangaria has begun to care about her, in order for Tangaria to get back to the family that she so desperately wants to see again. _The Hunger Games will make monsters of us all before this is over, _she decides, dragging her head through her hands and letting out a steady exhale, trying to immerse herself in the sporadic notes of birdsong wafting through the trees. Tangaria is grateful that there have been no cannons since the bloodbath; instead, she and Mariela have been blessed with relative silence, apart from her ally's morning run-in with the Careers.

_No cannons means Mariela hasn't been confronted by another tribute, either_, Tangaria reminds herself. Instead, the surrounding area is filled with the soft humming ambiance of the forest, notes of rustling leaves and the low chirring noise of the insects filling her ears. For once, Tangaria feels momentarily content, as if she is sitting in the shade between trees planted in the orchard, the shadows creating only a temporary refuge from the unrelenting sun.

_It's much the same concept here, _Tangaria believes. _Any refuge is only going to be temporary._

Hers is suddenly disrupted by the haunting notes of a mourning dove; the bird creating deep cooing noises that echo between the trees like a forlorn melody, sounding sweet and sad.

Then there is a harsh rustling in the undergrowth beside her, and Tangaria flinches, her hand instantly wrapped around the frame of her slingshot, a titanium bauble placed in the pouch and pulled back tight enough so that Tangaria's knuckles graze her cheekbone. The hunting knife Tangaria had procured had been given to Mariela on her expedition, and rather than a blade, Tangaria is left with the slingshot she received last night, a gift floating down from the sky on silvery wings.

A feminine voice curses, and Tangaria's heart swells with relief when she sees her ally's dark curly hair appear headfirst through the undergrowth. Mariela shakes a thistle from the side of her arena uniform, and flops to the ground, holding a large sponsor canister colored the same russet brown as her uniform. "Look what they sent me!" she says excitedly, pausing for a moment to collect her words. "It landed right in front of me, almost in the water," Mariela says, her voice now sounding more mature. "I had to catch it to make sure it didn't get wet."

Tangaria nods appraisingly, the canister looking significantly larger than Tangaria's from the night before. _It almost seems pitiful to tell her that someone sent me bread_, Tangaria decides, jealousy finding an ugly home in the pit of her stomach. "Go on, open it then," Tangaria says, trying to keep the competitive edge out of her words, a trait that has not been lost from the days of her childhood when she was the first and only girl born to the Roolch family.

_Just a foolish little girl running around with her brothers_, Tangaria thinks. But the memories of games and competitions bring a smile to her face; she and her brothers still exist in a simpler time frame. A time before she breaks her foot falling from the crowns of dead branches in the orchard trees. A time before her brother Habal begins to hate himself and the way his peers make him feel; a time before Tangaria must look after her sisters Vira, Miram and Talitha until they are old enough to look after themselves, left with a motherly sort of love ingrained in her bones.

_The same motherly love that bought me a one way ticket to, well, here_, Tangaria thinks rather frankly. Mariela has begun to open her canister, a comfortable silence falling between the two girls. It is a choice both agree on without the need to discuss, a rhythm of silent cycles to break the stifling pressures of the arena. _Sometimes it's just nice to sit, and be in the presence of someone who isn't looking to kill you_, she decides.

"It's from Daniel!" Mariela exclaims, making Tangaria wrack her brain to remember _who_ Daniel is. _With seven siblings, you think it'd be easy_. "Keep fighting," Mariela reads aloud, the words a mere whisper on her lips. _Oh! He's the mayor's son, _Tangaria remembers, though she says nothing to disrupt the moment. "We're rooting for you, Mar. You still need to meet your future niece. I love you." Mariela's hand flies up to the locket necklace around her neck, clutching it tightly as if the world could rip it away in seconds.

Once her emotions have subsided, Mariela pulls a few objects from the canister, delineating what they are in a monotonous voice, as if she is the clerk cataloguing baskets of fruits brought in from the orchards. "A sleeping roll, a spile…" she falters, and the smell of tesserae rations hits Tangaria's nose, the grainy aroma rising from a small bundle wrapped in a linen napkin.

"What does bread look like from District Twelve, Mari?" Tangaria asks curiously, looking up to find Mariela's disappointed gaze centered on the bundle.

"It's just…" Mariela trails off, rubbing her arm. "It's just tesserae. Drop biscuits, flat loaves of unleavened bread… my mother used to tell us that even the sparrows and the pigeons didn't like the taste of our bread, and they'll eat _anything_." Her ally has a glazed over look in her eyes. "It was always hard getting something to eat in Twelve," Mariela says candidly. "I had to find a job really young because it was difficult making ends meet back home… sort of a failsafe in case my mother wasn't able to provide for us, you know?" Mariela asks, the question rhetorical. Tangaria sits in silence, using her boot to scuff a circle into a patch of moss stretching underneath her.

"I learned from a coal miner how to sneak out of the district and set snares and traps to catch animals. One day they found my traps in the woods, and since venturing beyond the fence is considered illegal…" Mariela shudders. "My older sister June took the blame though, and got whipped for it, right in the middle of the town square," Mariela says quietly. _Would I take a whipping for one of my siblings?_ Tangaria wonders. She's seen the Peacekeepers trying to stamp out the gangs that run through the small industrial packaging sector of District Eleven, and suddenly remembers where she has seen her flame-haired district partner before. Asher had been restrained, the lash brought down on his moon-pale back, bringing tongues of red running down the curve of his spine.

Tangaria remembers covering her sister Miram's eyes, the two having been sent on a trip for groceries by their mother, but she herself is unable to tear her eyes from

the scarlet shining beneath the sun, nor the snarl on the Wolfchild's face as he took each lash with pride. _It's strange how all twenty-four of us could be so similar yet so different,_ Tangaria muses. Mariela's story had finished moments ago, leaving Tangaria grasping for straws as to where it was headed. "I-I'm sorry Mari," Tangaria says. "I can trade you, if you want," she says, offering her own gift of crescent-shaped rolls, knowing that Twelve's drop biscuits are likely to have the same mealy texture as their own ration bread from home. It's clear that what the bread represents for Mariela is much more than just a source of food; instead it is an amalgamation of all the things which have made her fifteen years in Panem a living hell.

"It's alright," says Mariela. "Can we put all of this in the backpack?" she asks. "We can share it all; the sleeping roll looks big enough for the both of us."

"Sure," Tangaria agrees, helping Mariela. The two do end up trying each other's bread, much to her ally's delight. But there is clearly something else on her mind. "I know that look, Mari," Tangaria says, wheels spinning in her head. "What is it? What did you see?"

"Do you feel like taking a swim?" Mariela asks sweetly. "I found a lake."

* * *

**Brita Edison **(**17**), **District 3 Tribute**

**3:27 PM**

"I want to blow up the Careers," Brita explains, her voice sounding a little strained, even to her. _Not like I had some elaborate plan in place or anything. This isn't some stupid kid science fair project back at school_.

She is met with an absolute silence, both tributes from District Five looking rather incredulously at her. "You want to… what now?" Nyx asks slowly, her vibrant green eyes flicking back and forth in thought. Sorrel, on the other hand, remains seated impassively, face schooled into the same neutrality it has always carried. "_The two of us are just fine without you,"_ Brita remembers Sorrel telling her on the second night of training, with the same look on his face. "_Why should we make space for anyone else, least of all you?"_

"Look," Brita says, sighing rather impatiently. "My brother helps to engineer some kind of land mines," she explains, without a second thought about what potential complications that nationally broadcasting the job her brother holds in secrecy might hold. "I know the basics on how they work, and I don't expect that whatever mines the Gamemakers use are much different. I want to reactive them… rig them in a circle around the Careers, so that if they - "

"Don't you think that'll be dangerous?" Nyx interrupts, frowning slightly. "The Careers would kill us on _sight_, no questions asked." Brita pinches the bridge of her nose, but she knew what risk she was running by explaining her plan to tributes she isn't even allied with. _Not officially, anyway, _Brita thinks darkly. Last night, Sorrel had distanced himself from Brita, instead choosing to sit on the other side of camp with his windbreaker hood thrown up and his back resting against a tree. _I'm still convinced he wasn't even asleep_, Brita considers, having felt eyes upon her back the entire night, when she and Nyx speak in hushed tones about the events of the day, the other girl massaging her temples every so often. _I guess she was slammed into something, _Brita guesses, regarding the snippets of conversation she had heard floating up from the basin of the valley. But Nyx seems to have slept off any headache, only complaining once during the day when she stands up too fast and almost falls over, with Sorrel swooping in to catch her.

Brita had almost gagged from the jealousy that she felt when watching Nyx tilt herself forward to press a tentative kiss on Sorrel's lips; in fact, Brita had looked away entirely as Nyx's porcelain cheeks reddened when Sorrel kissed her back, the public display of affection having rendered her a blushing mess. _She could have stopped traffic with how red she got_, Brita thinks, only half-amused. Nyx may pretend not to be a hopeless romantic, but with how easily she tends to get flustered around Sorrel, Brita believes it to be untrue.

Sorrel, on the other hand, is twice as enigmatic to her. In her limited time spent in their company, Brita has picked up on Sorrel's style of flirting. It's curious how he can keep such a calm demeanor when directing compliments and whispering other sweet nothings to Nyx. Romance is not something that comes easily to Brita, but jealousy is. _And it's a bitch for sure_.

"Well of course they would kill us," Brita says bluntly, deciding not to sugarcoat the cold hard facts. "I was thinking, though… it's bound to rain again at some point, and if all the Careers are huddled inside the Cornucopia or stranded hunting during the rain, they might not notice us digging." _It's a stretch for sure, but the Hunger Games epitomize the value of being a risk-taker. _"Historically, they're not going to stick to the Cornucopia forever," Brita continues as the two exchange a dumbfounded glance. _If there was anything Edward was ever good for, it was his knowledge of the Hunger Games_. "The Careers are bound to split sooner or later, and rigging the land mines could absolutely _fuck_ them over if there _is_ going to be a Feast called."

"If you want us to even _live_ to make the Feast," Nyx says exasperatedly, gesturing wildly with her hands. "I'm pretty convinced that it's a surefire way to get all three of us killed, Brita," Nyx snarkily deadpans, demeanor changing. _She thinks that I'm stupid,_ Brita realizes, the thought greatly paining her. _It's like the two of them have been putting me on trial ever since I approached them for an alliance_. She shakes her head, preparing a clever response… but never gets to actually speak it, the words dying instantly on her lips.

"I think it's a great idea," Sorrel says quietly, catching Brita completely off guard. _Those are the first words he's spoken to me all day_, she thinks, confusion making her brain feel as though it is swimming through molasses. "Maybe I was wrong," he admits. Brita meets his gaze and is unnerved to see that his kind smile does not reach his eyes, which remain guarded and impassive. His chin is raised slightly, almost as if he is looking down on Brita, and she can feel a strange mix of anger and relief churn in her stomach. "Maybe you are a valuable member to this alliance, Brita."

Brita pauses, completely shell-shocked, while Nyx struggles for words where she's seated beside Sorrel

on the other side of the shelter, their hands intertwined. Brita stares at the ceiling for a split second, it being a simple slanted frame covered with the tarp. "You really think so, Sorrel?" she asks tentatively, any sarcasm having been swallowed for fear of jeopardizing her new position within the alliance.

"Yes," he says kindly, clearly mulling things over. _Pragmatic_. "I think it'll be dangerous, yes. But it's a calculated risk that could better our standing against one of the biggest threats to our existence," he explains calmly.

Nyx looks like she's ready to object, but stops herself. "Fine," she says, voice diminutive. "I guess if you agree with her, I can make peace with it too," Nyx says, though the act feels rather fictitious. _The hothead and the Iceman. The pragmatic and the pushover. What a fucking pair they are, _Brita thinks sarcastically, bitter sort of jealousy dripping from her insides.

"Great," Brita begins. "I think we can backtrack to the Cornucopia tomorrow, and get our bearings again without a clock counting down over -" Without missing a beat, Sorrel stands up to catch a canister that must have fallen from the sky while Brita was distracted indulging him in conversation. "- our heads," Brita finishes, albeit rather plainly. A second canister falls moments later, and he hands it to Nyx, the coloration being the same rustic pink as the accents to her arena outfit, whereas Sorrel's is a clear vintage blue. The two open the gifts in silence, and Brita is left craning her neck to look for a third parachute in the sky.

But none comes, and she shifts her gaze downward grumpily, watching the two pull out lumpy white loaves of bread, topped with caraway seeds that form a lightning bolt in the surface of the bread. _Cute, and clever,_ Brita must admit. But it looks like it pales in comparison to the bite-sized square rolls from home that look like little pixels. Nyx also looks to the sky, wondering why Brita hasn't been sent a gift, and when the gods do not deliver, her ally tears off half of her loaf and stands to hand it to Brita. Her fingernails are still coated in a navy blue nail polish with a chunky glitter top coat that Brita assumes was applied by stylists before the interviews. Though she accepts the hunk of bread, the jealousy of it all settles in her bones.

_I still feel like I'm being placed on trial,_ Brita surmises. But the plaintiff has finally agreed with her, and perhaps Brita's sentence will be shortened. She watches Sorrel cleanly saw off half of his loaf and offers it to Nyx, who waves her hand in refusal. "Take it, Nyxand-" Sorrel cuts his sentence off when she glares daggers at him, the words no longer needing to be spoken out loud. _You think he'd get it by now,_ Brita muses, wondering why he prefers to use her full name.

Instead, he wordlessly hands it to her with a small smile. "It's okay," Nyx tells him, taking a steadying breath. "I just… my full name feels kind of embarrassing, you know?" Sorrel nods, mouthing 'sorry' before taking another bite of bread.

"My bad," Sorrel admits. "But I do have to agree with your parents, your name is absolutely lovely. Just like you," he compliments her, still looking neutral. Nyx blushes heavily and tries to hide her embarrassment, but Sorrel wraps his arm around her waist, a small smile now glowing on his face. He whispers something indiscernible to his district partner, and she only gets redder.

_It's cute, but what a pair of hopeless romantics,_ Brita snorts, finishing her bread. She bites back another offhanded comment and waits for them to be done before she clears her throat.

"Once you two lovebirds are done, can we go get water?" Brita asks. "That bread kind of made me thirsty, and we're almost running out here," she observes, trying to escape the uncomfortable situation.

"I can go with you!" Nyx offers. "We haven't heard any cannons, but if the Careers are hunting, it's a bad idea to venture out alone, even if our camp is well-hidden." She looks to Sorrel, as if he is going to give her an answer, and he smiles genially back at her.

"_Nyx_, you don't need my permission to go do something," he says, words well-spoken. "I'm your…" he pauses for a second, before the smile reaches his eyes for the very first time. "I'm your boyfriend, Nyx. Not your jailer." He unlaces his fingers from hers and waves them off. "I can defend camp"

Brita shrugs and strolls out of camp, Nyx in tow. The girls fall into an easy silence as they walk from their encampment in a grove of trees, the treeline breaking to reveal a sweeping valley beneath them. It is bordered with raised cliffs, and the river - though black as ink during the night - now twists like a sapphire serpent through the valley. A soft rushing noise reaches her ears, punctuated only by the sweet melodies of birds in the treetops and the soft metal clink of Nyx's necklace bouncing against the zipper of her windbreaker as they walk. Brita left her windbreaker back at camp, and though it is a little chilly from the wind, Brita revels in the goosebumps that prickle up and down her arms.

Her shirt is black in coloration, with her district number - _03_ \- printed in an Indian red color on the front and back. Brita wonders momentarily if it looks like blood from far away. Nyx is murmuring to herself, words that Brita both cannot hear and doesn't care to eavesdrop, but Brita herself remains silent, wondering.

_Maybe it's finally working,_ she thinks. _Maybe I've finally cracked my way into their alliance._ She wonders, fleetingly, if the parents she has lost would be proud watching their daughter work herself off from rock bottom. _I wonder if they would be proud of the woman I've become, and what I'm capable of_. Her hand flies instinctively to the necklace her brother Darwin had given her, and her fingers once again find the grooves of the data chip, wondering what it would be like to see and hear her parents again. _But Darwin lied about his job… would he lie about them too?_ Her parents have been gone for five years, abducted just before Brita's first Reaping. _Suspected rebels. Traitors._

The Edison family had become entrapped in a world of speculation and lies, and Brita is determined to make her parents proud of her by winning this whole damn thing, wherever they are.

"Brita, did you bring a knife?" Nyx asks, the girl having stopped short, a few paces behind Brita.

"Uh, no…?" Brita asks, suddenly scanning the valley around them. _Did she see another tribute?_

"Something feels off," Nyx says, taking a step backward. "I think we should go back and get a knife," she explains. "Or ask Sorrel, he whittled a club last night before you showed up in case he needed to have a longer-ranged weapon to defend ourselves with."

"I'll go back and grab one," Brita says hurriedly. Fear spikes in her stomach when she sees two tall shapes emerge from the trees on the opposite side of the river. "Hide if you can!" Brita whispers urgently, unable to tell from a distance who the other tributes might be. "Hurry!" Nyx scrambles toward a copse of trees sitting lonely on the slope, and Brita makes a mad dash back for the encampment nestled against the cliffside.

Her legs are burning from exertion when she gets back, and Brita braces her hands on her knees, trying to collect her breath. "Sorrel," she pants. "We need the club. Or a knife. There are two tributes across the river, and I left Nyx hiding in a tree," she manages to say, straightening her posture to meet Sorrel's gaze.

A chill runs down her spine at the sight of him.

Sorrel is already holding the club, his chin tilted upward so that he is looking down on Brita. His smile has a dangerous edge, lips almost twisted into a feral scowl; but it is his eyes that scare Brita the most. Normally unemotive, they have taken on a wild and vicious look, no longer listless and impassive.

Brita takes a step back as he lifts the club, resting it on his shoulder. "I-I'm sorry I left her alone," Brita pleads, nearly jumping out of her own skin as she backs into a tree.

"I told you, Brita," Sorrel says, voice deadly and calm despite the scowl on his face. His hands seem to shake slightly, and Brita can feel her heart thudding against her ribs. "I told you that you have no place in our alliance."

Then the club comes swinging, and Brita has no chance to duck it; the weapon slamming into the side of her head with a sickening crunch. Brita is sure she is screaming, but her ears are ringing loudly and her vision swims in front of her eyes. "S… Sorrel what the _f_-" she begins, vision spotty. She tries to stand, but she feels him tackle her back to the ground, the impact of her head on the ground sending sharp pains down her spine. She struggles against him, but he grips her wrists, pinning her down.

Brita's vision darkens as she feels him press the drab canvas of a backpack on her face, and she thrashes, trying to shake him off. _Not like this. Not like this,_ she pleads, fear burning holes in her veins.

She can't breathe, and the further Sorrel presses the backpack against her mouth and nose, the more Brita suffocates, smothered against the fabric. She thrashes, and kicks her legs upward, but they connect with nothing, the attempt futile from the start. His hand is a vice on her wrist, but Brita's other non-dominant hand feebly connects with something, and she grabs it, trying to pull as hard as possible.

Sorrel does not budge, and Brita can begin to feel her lungs scream for air. Her chest convulses, but Brita does not have enough air left in her to scream anymore. Brita slips blissfully into the abyss, her body going slack in Sorrel's arms.

A cannon sounds, the noise like thunder in the air, and the arena goes silent for a moment.

Afterward, the birds continue to sing.

* * *

**EULOGIES: **

* * *

**19th: Brita Edison (17), District 3 Female (**_**Submitted by districtfours**_**). Killed by Sorrel Nettleson via smothered to death with a backpack. Brita was one of those characters who faded into the background for me a little bit. I enjoyed writing her interactions with Edward and District Five, but I knew that any of the ripples she made in the plot would ultimately not be for her own benefit. Her plan to rig land mines against the Careers or her perseverance in allying with Sorrel and Nyx were both pretty fun to explore, but I knew that adding a third member to their alliance wasn't going to sit well with me (or Sorrel) as the story progressed, so here she rests, dead for her own ambitions. Sorry if her death felt rushed - RIP.**

* * *

**ALLIANCES: **

* * *

_**Career Pack**_**: Castiel (D1M), Crescentia (D1F), Moses (D2M), Hela (D2F), Alton (D4M), Siren (D4F), Asher (D11M)**

_**Angsty Teen Romance II**_**: Sorrel (D5M), Nyx (D5F)**

_**The Beans Are Dead**_**: Winston (D7M), Padds (D9M)**

_**Shooketh**_**: Tangaria (D11F), Mariela (D12F)**

_**Flying Solo**_**: Axel (D6M)**

_**Aggression and Sunshine**_**: Darnius (D8M)**

_**From Ember to Flame**_**: Halley (D8F)**

_**The "Apex Predator"**_**: Ruben (D10M)**

_**Violet Violence**_**: Evie (D10F)**

* * *

**Author's Note: Yikes. I'm never gonna get better at this update schedule, am I? Anyway… new poll on my profile. If you vote, please let me know through PM or Discord or whatever works for you. It is worth fifty points, and there will be another poll accompanying the next chapter worth an additional fifty points to those who let me know they participated since I can't see names.**

**Sponsoring is still very much open, so make sure to go buy yourselves something nice if retail therapy works for you haha. I'm actually going to be making several changes to my sponsoring system and the ways in which points can be acquired by readers and submitters, as once we hit the final fifteen tributes, prices are going to begin to rise (albeit slightly). So from here on out, I'm going to be adding a few more items that can be sponsored, as well as asking several chapter questions which can be answered through review, PM, or a quick Discord message, whatever you prefer, worth twenty five points for answering all of them. You can also add messages to the sponsor gifts, and choose how to time the gifts, like what we saw with Mariela's gift. **

**I would also like to point out that the has/needs supplies list for each tribute IS posted on the Death is the Rule blog, which can be found at this link: death - is - the - rule - 29th - annual - hunger - games . weebly . com, so make sure you check it out. There is a lot of cool information on the blog that can help refresh your memory on tributes and events as well, since my posts are about as frequent as once in a blue moon. The blog also **_**does**_ **have the semi-recent addition of a compiled playlist of the songs from lyrics I've used in this story, so if that interests you please check it out, ShunKazamis-Girl put a lot of hard work into it. Finally, there is **_**also**_ **a hand-drawn map of the Arena posted into the blog, which might help if you have a hard time visualizing the different points of interest within the arena. **

**This was originally going to be posted on the anniversary of this story - July 7th! - which is kind of bittersweet because I was aiming to have finished it by that specific date. Obviously… that didn't happen. I've had a rough time in lockdown, and I won't get into specifics but it's definitely not been a good time for me to motivate myself to write, and that makes me a little nervous since senior year is upcoming and I'm going to be swamped with college applications soon lmao.**

**Anyway, we've FINALLY gotten to our first post-bloodbath death, and I believe there are only three total arena chapters left that won't have deaths, so buckle up. I'm going to try and start the next chapter ASAP as well as work on the reviews I owe people. I'm hoping that by August at the very least I'll finally be ready, motivated and prepared enough to start posting semi-regularly, although the increasing length of POVs isn't helping. But obviously, empty promises as per the usual.**

**Chapter Questions are as follows:**

**1 - Do you think the Careers are destined to self-implode? If so, when will the split occur? Would Hela have been a better leader than Castiel?**

**2 - Was it a smart move for Halley to steal from the Careers? Will Castiel and Crescentia be successful in hunting her down? **

**3 - How badly do you think Sorrel killing Brita is going to impact his relationship and alliance with Nyx? Did you expect Sorrel and Brita to come into conflict with each other this early?**

**And finally, the ending note, I want to give a shoutout to five very awesome people: Paradigm of Writing, SetFiresJust2WatchThemBurn, Manny Siliezar, WhateverIsOpen, and ShunKazamis-Girl. Without the five of you, my ever-so-slow updates would never even get written, and this story would have likely died off way back in December. I appreciate the living hell out of you all! That's all from me for now. Hope you all have a great day/night. You deserve it!**


	23. Chapter 23: When It Rains, It Pours (P1)

"_So what if you can see the darkest side of me?_

_No one would ever change this animal I have become_

_And help me believe it's not the real me_

_Somebody help me tame this animal…"_

-Three Days Grace, Animal I Have Become

* * *

**CHAPTER 23**

**WHEN IT RAINS, IT POURS**

**NIGHT TWO, PART 1**

* * *

**Rating changed to 'M' for some sexual stuff in Alton's POV (Part 1) and the degree of violence in Axel's (Part 2). More information below :))**

* * *

**Nyxandrea 'Nyx' Nexus **(**16**), **District 5 Tribute**

**3:50 PM**

The cannon almost makes Nyx fall out of the tree she is perched in, the thunderous noise sending a bolt of shock through her stomach. The arena goes silent for a moment, and Nyx watches the two dark shapes on the other side of the river pause and stare at the sky as the noise rolls across the afternoon sky, fading away until nothing but the rushing of the river is left and the birds begin to sing once again.

And, of course, the two tributes in front of her.

Nyx tries to flatten herself against the tree, not daring to throw up her hood in fear that the motion or the rustic pink color would alert the duo of tributes to her location. _Brita should be back by now_, Nyx decides, carefully craning her neck to look behind herself for her ally, who is nowhere to be seen.

_There's no way the cannon was for her, right?_ Nyx wonders. _That wouldn't make sense_. Maybe Sorrel is coming with her; in fact, the three of them do stand a much better chance against an enemy than just two of them, armed only with knives. "_We haven't heard any cannons, but if the Careers are hunting, it's a bad idea to venture out alone,"_ Nyx remembers Brita saying just mere moments ago, her stomach sinking at the unsettling irony of the situation. Not to mention there is a persistent throbbing at the back of her skull that comes in tides and swells; no doubt an aftereffect of her head being slammed into the launch pedestal by the girl from District One, Crescentia.

It's strange how just quickly the world can go to shit.

_The two are definitely Careers_. Nyx recognizes the fiery red hair of the outlier boy they had invited into the alliance, and though the tribute with him has her pine green hood raised up, Nyx can tell by the way she carries herself that it's the dangerous girl from District Two. _Not a good sign at all_, Nyx decides, swallowing thickly. _Not at all_.

Her head begins to throb harder with the reverberations of the cannon throughout the valley; a persistent ache at the base of her skull that forces Nyx to press a hand toward the source, bracing herself against the tree with her shoulder. She grits her teeth and waits for the ache to subside, groaning under her breath. _If Crescentia hadn't slammed me into that pedestal, we wouldn't have these issues_, Nyx thinks frustratedly. The headache has come and gone the past two days, an unfixable ache that flares up every once in a great while.

_Now isn't the time_, Nyx thinks, blinking tears from her eyes to watch the two Careers approach, fording the river with predatory grace. _Life is so, so cruel_.

She flattens herself against the back of the tree, its bark scratching her back through the sheer material of the nylon windbreaker. Through the leafy boughs of the tree, Nyx cannot see the camp that they had set up last night, but the lack of movement disturbs her. _Brita wouldn't leave me here, would she? _

_Would Sorrel?_

_Fuck that_, Nyx thinks to herself. _I'm not some damn fairytale princess that needs help getting out of a sticky situation._ She stills her breathing and listens to the soft rushing of the river in the distance, listening intently for any noises that might break the sound barrier, such as the heavy footsteps of the two Careers, or whispered snippets of conversation. Nyx slowly takes her necklace, tucking Solander's sun into the collar of her shirt. The metal is warm against her skin, and Nyx wishes she could take strength and solace from the sun. _Everything will be alright_, she tells herself, unaware that the words are hissed through her teeth, a reassuring gesture that soothes her nerves.

And a gesture that gives her away. Fear sinks its claws into Nyx's stomach as she sees the deadly Career from Two raise her arm and point toward the copse of trees, a hushed exchange of words passing between them. Nyx recoils instinctively as something is hurled toward her head, the head of a spear embedding itself into the tree behind her with a loud splintering _crack_.

"There's someone up there," the older girl says coolly, her voice sharp like flint. "Let's take care of business."

"_Hide if you can!"_ Nyx thinks bitterly, Brita's voice curling into her ear. _In a lonesome copse of trees. I have nowhere to go. Real smart for a girl from Three_, Nyx thinks, a buzzing mixture of fear and fury settling in her stomach. She can feel vibrations underneath her and flinches, eyes darting between the opening in the trees and the spear next to her head. Nyx grabs it, wrapping her porcelain fingers around the wooden shaft of the spear and wrenching it from the tree. There is little room to maneuver, but Nyx is able to point the spear toward the source of movement, the steel tip pointing squarely at Hela's throat as she appears between the trunks.

"Gonna put that through my throat?" she asks sarcastically. Nyx can feel her heart hammer against her ribs, unsure of what to do. She takes a step forward, lunging with the spear, but the act feels fictitious and horribly forced. Hela ducks out of the way, grasping the spear and yanking it out of Nyx's hands. Nyx feels herself falling forward, and braces herself against the tree, breathing hard, as Hela begins the climb anew with her weapon back in her hands.

_Don't scream, don't scream, don't scream!_

There is a sceam, but it is not her own; more animalistic and gravelly, and both she and Hela look down, fight suspended for a moment as they take in the sight of Sorrel hitting Asher between the shoulders with the blunt force of his club. Asher wheels on her district partner, brandishing a pair of gleaming titanium claws, but Nyx is unable to see what happens next, as Hela has refocused her attention on Nyx, leaving Asher to his own devices. "You're alright, Nyx," she mumbles to herself under her breath, backing up as the steel-forged Career steps forward, her chin tilted high like Sorrel's often is, but a look of malice deep-rooted in her eyes rather than a passive facade.

Hela produces something off of her back and Nyx stumbles as a weighted net is thrown at her, catching her off guard. The net's trajectory is hindered by the narrow confines of the copse of trees, but it catches Nyx off balance, and she falls, clinging to a swath of rope in the middle section to keep herself from falling to the ground.

_She is the hunter_, Nyx thinks despairingly, _and I am the prey_. This fearful thinking is only worsened when Hela's spear is brought down toward Nyx's knuckles, the point creating excruciating agony in her hand as it sinks into the edge of her hand. Nyx lets go, a cry of pain tearing out of her, and lands several feet below, crumpling roughly to her knees. The wind has been knocked out of her lungs, and she gasps like a fish out of water. _Air has never tasted so delicious_, she thinks, brain working in overdrive. _Stay alive._ The spear comes hurtling down from the tree and Nyx rolls to her left, narrowly avoiding getting pierced by it.

She cradles her bleeding hand and staggers to her feet, catching a glimpse of Asher's claws flashing across Sorrel's stomach. A cry escapes her lips, and Asher turns his head to glance at her, an impish smile lighting up his face. _Where's Brita?_ Alarm bells ring in her head, but it is Nyx's biggest priority to escape this attack. _We aren't going out like this!_

Sorrel grunts in shock and surprise, red lines dripping blood down the front of his vintage blue nylon windbreaker, the blood looking almost alien and purple. Seeing him bleed energizes Nyx, and she sprints into action, not thinking twice as she launches herself at Asher, tackling him to the ground. _It's like tussling with Solander_, she muses, _except he has a pair of freakin' claws and my life is on the line_. Her competitive streak runs deep into her bones, and Nyx struggles intensely against Asher, trying to keep a hold of his wrists, the claws poking at her face. Nyx manages to keep a distance from them, her muscles straining to keep the much taller boy flat on his back. _Not my fault I'm a sore loser_, she thinks exasperatedly, ducking and hurling herself off of Asher as Hela makes a reappearance, the spear thrust at Nyx. There is a hollow noise as Sorrel's club connects with the spear, sending it flying in the other direction, and he scrambles toward her, placing a hand on her shoulder and guiding her away as fast as he can. The two break out into a sprint as Asher picks himself off the ground with a groan.

Nyx has always enjoyed rubbing her wins into the faces of her opponents, but with the circumstances given, there is no time or reason. _Would make for some great television though_, she thinks absently as she runs with Sorrel down the slope of the riverbanks, the twisting serpentine river just a few yards in front of them, the water rushing and eddying in small currents.

"Brace yourself!" Sorrel shouts, gripping her hand tightly as they take the plunge, their boots causing water to spray around them before they get deeper into the water. The water is numbing, and the injury in her hand feels whole, her body weightless as the current tries to drag them off course. "Let's hope these backpacks are waterproof," Sorrel says through gritted teeth, and Nyx notices he is carrying his own backpack, it being a muddy brown color.

Nyx looks behind her, watching Asher and Hela, both still wet from their earlier fording of the river, stop at the banks of the river. _They're watching us_. "Sorrel," Nyx says, struggling to fight against the slight current even though the water does not come higher than the middle of her chest. "We need to go downriver and make our way back around once they're out of sight," she suggests, gasping as the cold water sloshes around her. A light drizzle of rain comes down from the sky, and Nyx shivers as it begins to pour now, coming down in sheets that drench her hair and run in rivulets down her back. She and Sorrel both throw up their hoods and crawl, like bedraggled animals, onto the opposite bank. Nyx staggers to her feet, her injured hand leaking a watery red flow, and helps Sorrel to his feet, their eyes locking briefly. _Keep moving_.

"Keep moving, Nyxandrea," he says tiredly, before she can protest. "I'm right behind you, okay?" His voice is warm and charming, but his eyes are as impassive as ever, a blank slate that does little to reveal the ordeal they have just been through, apart from the slight shaking of his body from the cold rain and the wetness of the river. She looks back to see the two Careers, both turning to walk in the other direction, and trudges toward the treeline, hoping that if they do ford the river at a shallower point, that Sorrel and herself will be well-hidden by then.

"Where's Brita?" she gasps once they enter the woods, still trying to catch her breath. Her long morning runs across the urban sprawl of District 5 were nothing compared to slogging through a river and escaping two Careers with dangerous weapons. _Stamina over adrenaline... clearly there's a difference_. But she is thankful for whatever stamina the competitions with Dean had ingrained in her, since the

They push on deeper into the swath of forest that hugs the cliffside, the trees growing thicker as they walk. Sorrel is silent, instead clutching his stomach where the Wolfchild had slashed Sorrel with his claw-gloves. "There are bandages in my backpack," he instructs quietly. "I think we both-" Sorrel grunts in pain "- need some right now. Nyx gently takes the backpack from off his shoulders, and unzips it in search of the bandages, the zipper as smooth and noiseless as butter. She finds the package and fumbles with it briefly, trying not to look at Sorrel's now purple shirt, the wound in his stomach blossoming.

He shakes his head almost imperceptibly. "You first," he mumblee, gesturing to her hand, where Hela's spear has rendered the edge of her hand a splintered mess. Nyx looks at it, feeling a sense of detachment. _That… that can't be mine, right?_ She pushes down vomit and slowly wraps a bandage tight around her hand, pressing her face into Sorrel's jacket to scream from the pain, raw and full of an agony that she cannot describe as the splintered bone is pulled into place.

Sorrel gently kisses the top of her head, and she can feel his lips shiver as he does so, tying off the bandage on her hand. "Try not to use that hand, okay darling?" he asks her, his angular coffee-colored eyes searching her own vibrant green ones, like the crisp grass beneath the two of them. _Darling_.

She shakes the thought out of her head, fully aware of how close the two of them are. Nyx silently curses her mother for never giving her "the talk" properly, her only female role model being swept away by every gesture of romance from her husband, always a stammering and blushing mess in his arms. _As awkward as that is… maybe I want that from Sorrel too?_ She wonders, the word "darling" rebounding in her head. She slowly shrugs his black tactical jacket down his shoulders and lifts the stained nylon windbreaker, three thin slash marks in the material that extend through Sorrel's undershirt and into the flesh of his stomach.

"I repeat," Nyx says rather urgently, scanning the undergrowth. "Where. Is. Brita?"

Sorrel sighs, inhaling deeply before meeting her gaze, his eyes level with her own. "The cannon was for her, Nyxandrea," he says calmly, plunging her into an icy kind of shock. _She… she's dead?_ "Yes," Sorrel says gently, before she can speak. He shifts slowly, groaning as the movement pulls his injuries. "And before you hate me, I was only doing what I deemed necessary for you. For _us_," he says, eyes guarded and searching her own.

The shock spreads, like an icy fire, into her sternum. "Y-_you_ killed her?" Nyx asks, a sickening feeling growing in the pit of her stomach. Anger at Sorrel flares behind her eyelids and she presses a finger to one of the wounds in his stomach, eliciting a yell from her district partner. "Sorrel, why the hell would you kill her? Didn't you say that you were impressed by her ideas? That she was a valuable member of our alliance?" Nyx begins to chuckle, a low and hysterical sound. "You killed her?" she reiterates, the words full of doubt and disbelief.

Sorrel nods slowly, and Nyx takes a steadying breath, counting in her head. _1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6…_ "I lied, Nyxandrea," he admits. _7, 8, 9, 10._ "I lied because I knew she would jeopardize your chances. Could you not see how _selfish_ she was?" Sorrel asks her imploringly, catching her chin when she refuses to look at him. "Talk to me, Nyx," he says, unperturbed by the withering glare she sends in his direction.

"She wasn't selfish!" Nyx says, throwing her hands in the air. "But _you_ are, for thinking you know what's best for me," she shouts, prodding his chest with an indignant finger.

"Look, Nyx," he says gingerly, "I'm sorry. My apologies… I shouldn't have taken her life," he says, eyes becoming unfocused as he withdraws from the situation, the gravity of the words falling like an avalanche between them. "But I did it _because_ I thought I knew what was better for the two of us. I didn't want Brita to be the reason you never get to see District Five again. I didn't want Brita to be the reason Solander got his necklace back from a _wooden box_, okay?" he inquires, facade cracking ever so slightly. "Maybe my judgement was bad, but I never intended to hurt you," he says softly.

Nyx swallows dryly, unwinding a large swath of the bandages and gauging where his wounds are. "They look shallow, if I didn't make it worse," she says, though it is more of a question than a statement, aiming to ignore the emotions running loose in her head. Sorrel nods in affirmation, his eyes closing shut momentarily.

"Do what you have to do. I should be alright."

Nyx nods and quietly wraps his abdomen with the cloth bandages, sure to tighten them to apply pressure to his wounds, the thick white cloth staining a vibrant crimson. "Are you sure?" she asks him, basking in the comforting familiarity of his well-structured face after the uncertainty of the past half an hour.

"Yes," he says breathily, blinking as a raindrop slides between the thick canopy and hits him in the chin. "Everything is going to be alright," he says rather warmly, catching Nyx by surprise. His hand takes her own and gives it a squeeze, her thin smooth fingers enveloped in his own. Nyx can feel her cheeks blush red at the simple gesture, though the hue on her skin is nothing compared to the stained bandages. _I don't want to forgive him,_ she thinks. Death is not something that can be forgiven, nor something paid for or forgotten easily. But Sorrel has been the only steadfast part of this last week, looking out for her and being a constant companion at her side, a presence Nyx has found infinitely comforting. _I know he cares about me_, she decides. _Even if he isn't able to express it properly… because of the Hunger Games and all_, she explains to herself, nodding her head.

Nyx drags his shirt back down, careful that it doesn't catch on the bandage. "I'm not sure there's anything else we can do," she frets, hands gesturing toward the backpack. "I'm sorry," she mouths, looking down at her district partner. He shrugs slightly, and she can tell he is biting back a grimace, the pain and fear of the past few days having worn holes in his impossibly constructed mask of calmness and still. "I shouldn't have poked you in the wounds."

"And I shouldn't have done something so rash."

Nyx nods, lost in thought. She could stare at him for hours, finding fascination in this boy she had grown up alongside, always a wedge between the two because of Solander's actions. Her rich upbringing had brought a degree of bullying and forced isolation from the rest of her classmates, leaving Nyx feeling dejected and awkward until the age of six, ten years ago, when the two had spent the afternoon board games inside the study of the Nexus home during a storm, the rain running down the windows and collecting on the panes in translucent little beads. _And then Solander made sure his friends didn't talk to me, either_, she thinks, the thought leaving an acrid taste in the back of her mouth. She remembers seeing Sorrel in and out of the Nexus family home ever since, always sticking to Solander and his small posse of friends. _He had always been polite to my parents too_, she thinks, wondering what they would think of their daughter falling head over heels for her district partner.

_If we hadn't been Reaped, would things be different?_ She wonders, remembering the kiss on the chariots, with the soft glow of neon lights dancing across their skin; the frustration she had felt when Sorrel didn't talk about their shared kiss for the day, only for her to explode the next about it, breaking down his perfectly constructed walls with a secret of her own. _He would have never killed Brita. We wouldn't be here right now, but would he have ever come forward and taken my hand if it wasn't for the Hunger Games forcing us together?_

"_I… I've felt the same way about you for close to ten years,"_ Nyx remembers Sorrel admitting, voice raspy and uncertain for once in her ear. "_You knew that, right?"_ But Nyx would have never known, could have never guessed that her brother's friend had been infatuated with her for that long. The thought makes her giddy inside, and Nyx leans forward, her lips feverishly seeking his own. Sorrel is receptive, his mouth parted and full of desire, the unspoken emotion crackling between them, whispering nothings against her cheek when he pulls away, leaving only a sweet taste on her tongue.

"You're the only one for me, Nyx," he whispers, his hands holding hers now, her chin resting over his shoulder with tears in her eyes. _I can't lose this. _"I'm madly in love with you, you know that?" he asks.

She nods, a lump forming in her throat. Nyx can tell that he means it, the words spoken emotionally and without his usual projected professionalism. He holds her tighter, and she feels a droplet hit her shoulder that she isn't so sure is rain.

Somehow, there is magic to be found in a nightmare.

* * *

**Crescentia Monroe **(**18**), **District 1 Tribute**

**4:02 PM**

The woods are wet and slick from the drizzling downpour of rain; cascading rivulets dripping from the vibrant green and gold leaves above them as the sky's tears fall down from gated heavens. Castiel and Crescentia plod through the undergrowth, the former using his sword to clear a path through the dense wall of plants encircling them. He groans in exasperation, the noise harsh in Crescentia's ears, as she has grown used to the tense silence, and swings the sword with unnecessary force at a cluster of thistles. The flowering purple tops of the plants go sailing in the air, brought down to die on sodden earthen ground by a gust of torrential rain and chilly wind.

"It's been _hours_ since we last saw her. I think we've lost the bitch, _Crescentia_," Castiel sneers, the emphasis on her name dripping like venom from his unguarded tongue. "_We're the Career Pack,"_ Crescentia remembers him saying, the words full of unprescribed cockiness as her district partner stands in front of District Two and she strains to catch his words, the chariots lined up neatly in a column as they wait for the doors to slide open. "_It's up to us to thin this herd of scared little bitches, right?"_ The words remain in the back of her skull, like an incessant itch as the chariots roll out into the dazzling lights, with the masses of brightly-colored Capitolites clamoring to see them from each side of the runway.

Crescentia almost misses the attention; the intense cheering and the rose she catches, all the love and adoration in the world making her feel as if she is crowned with a laurel resting on her flaxen hair.

_It tasted like victory was already mine_.

It is the sugary taste that Crescentia wants to chase after, the golden honey prize for the unstung and and unscathed, wherein her point will be proven to the disbelievers and she will return home with the accolades of a Victor, her dissatisfaction with the rewards of life staunched by the intricacies of a new life worth exploring. _And why couldn't I win?_

Brought to the present by the sound of Castiel grumbling under his breath. She turns to face her district partner, affronted, crossing her arms across her breasts. It has been hours, _hours_ of chasing after red ochre flashes and struggling pointlessly through the tangled woods to find a twelve-year-old girl with a backpack full of things that she shouldn't have; and frankly, the pointlessness of slogging through the rain has grown to frustrate Crescentia.

"You say that like it's _my_ fault and not your own, Castiel." _As if. I'm not the one leading this charge… in fact, it _always _seems to be Castiel who keeps fucking things up for the rest of us_. "Leader my ass," Crescentia bemoans, hissing the latter sentence under her breath to escape scrutiny from his blue eyes.

But she fails to outrun the dark blue bloodhounds; the sound of the rain failing to mask her dissent, and Castiel stops in his tracks and turns to face her. "Really, Crescentia? You're going to fight me too, huh?"

Any traces of joviality and mirth that normally reside on his face have disappeared, a cold and uncrackable mask taking its stead. "You're supposed to stick _with_ me, not against me. I've already got Hela and Asher to contend with. The way Moses looks at me when I tell him things to do, you'd think I'm fucking crazy." He trails off, pushing through the undergrowth angrily with his hands this time. His hands tear at the wild growths of plant life, the sword laying limp at his side with stains of greenish chlorophyll running along the defined edges of the blade.

_I hope the plants have dulled it_, Crescentia thinks scathingly. _After all, they're the only thing he's used it on_, she smirks, trying to avoid thinking about the young girl from Seven's untimely demise. "I don't think we've entirely lost her," Crescentia decides after a moment, gesturing to the expanse of unending forest. "She has to be around here somewhere, even if we _have_ been searching for hours…"

"But she's not," Castiel says, shrugging and tilting his head toward the sky, where the thunderous sound of a cannon had heralded the sudden onslaught of the sweeping rainstorm. "We would have found her by now. Dealt her a little retribution. Maybe she's the one who died," he says, gazing around them for any signs of a tribute's presence.

_I doubt the cannon was for Halley, though, _Crescentia thinks bitterly. _If it was, we'd be back in camp now. Warm and dry_. The hoods and coats are enough to keep them dry, sure, but Crescentia doesn't _feel_ dry, and without a majorly efficient thermal layer, the cold rain feels like it's making her skin numb; hands already leaden and clammy.

No doubt Moses, Alton and Siren have taken refuge under the shelter provided by the Cornucopia. Crescentia wonders fleetingly if Hela and Asher have returned from hunting, or if they're still out trudging through the woods as they have been since early in the morning when they left, just after the strangely human conversation Crescentia had with Hela.

"_Are you nervous?"_ Hela's voice whispers in her ear, smooth and chilly like frost. _Yes_, Crescentia thinks, eyeing the back of Castiel's head cautiously. _With how cold and spiteful he can get? Definitely nervous_.

"_It's not like Castiel is taking you away to put a sword through your head. Let alone on a picnic or anything."_

She does not vocalize the queasy discomfort she feels in her stomach at the thought, instead readjusting her burgundy red hood. The fabric presses her hair, tied quickly into a low bun, uncomfortably into her neck, and suddenly Crescentia wishes he _had_ brought her out for a picnic. _Would be a lot more pleasant than this_.

Droplets fall upon Castiel's face, and he sidearms his sword to rub them into his skin. Crescentia is reminded of the lengthy shower that he had taken after the second day of training, just before the same night when she had waltzed with a singing Siren under dusky kitchen lights, several shots of vodka running a slight buzz through her veins and elation making her feel as though she was tall enough to stand and pluck the forlorn stars out of the inky night sky.

"_We don't need to create any unnecessary conflicts between us and Hela,"_ Crescentia had told Castiel as he dried his hair with a towel, knowing fully well that deceit and duplicity are often the biggest pitfall of the Career Pack. _We don't need to lie to each other_, she thinks, lips quirking into a smile at the irony. After all, her entire life in the Hunger Games rides on the coattails of a lie, one which she is afraid could burn and flake into a thousand ashes at the lightest touch.

Castiel weaves his fingers through his hair, breathing deeply. "Yeah, Crescentia. I'm pretty… I'm pretty sure we've lost her. It's fruitless to spend the rest of our night getting soaked and miserable looking for a twelve-year-old who will probably be dead in the next twenty-four hours, anyway. The little _rat_." He spits, collecting his sword, and stands up to face Crescentia, his skin pale and flushed. Castiel stops a few paces from her, a muscle feathering in his jaw.

"Speaking of rats," Castiel says, his voice taking on a sudden dark undertone as he lifts the green-stained sword so that it is level with her throat. "Speaking of rats, what made you decide to _lie_ to the rest of us? What made you decide to lie to _me_?" Castiel queries, his voice raising in frantic pitch.

Crescentia swallows hard, caught entirely off guard and tries to keep her expression neutral as fear flares into her veins. _I have to keep myself from drowning, or it's game over. Game over, game over, game over_. She takes a step back, heart pounding, and reaches for a throwing knife. Castiel takes a step forward.

_He could take my life with that thing_.

"You wouldn't be able to throw that in a straight line to save your life. Literally," he snarls, eyes locked on her throwing knife. "No wonder you couldn't take care of District Five. I bet you've never even been _trained_ properly, have you, _Crescentia_?" he asks, weaponizing her name once more.

Crescentia cringes internally, eyes darting back and forth. _Like a trapped animal_. When she opens her mouth and speaks slowly, the words come out hoarse with fear. _Sink or swim_. "I've been trained. Castiel. I've… I've been trained, just not as long as you have," she admits, willing to throw her neck into the guillotine with the hopes of escaping the steely tip of his sword.

"Trained as long as I have? Neither did Charms, and he-" Castiel stops talking, looking like he's been sucker-punched in the stomach. His eyes blaze with some kind of unspoken fury, and the sword does not waver. "Were you ever planning on telling me? Is this why you volunteered over Nike? She and I had trained together for _years_, Crescentia! She wasn't some _degenerate_ loose cannon like you are!" He kicks the dirt beneath his boot and glares down the length of his blade to meet her in the eyes. "Tell me," he says dangerously, his voice deadly calm.

_What the fuck have I gotten myself into?_ Crescentia wonders, nearly hyperventilating. _The one person who's supposed to trust me is going to turn his back on me._ It hits her then, like a clarifying lightning bolt, a thought which cannot escape her mind.

_Siren and I need to get out._

_I need to get out_.

It becomes a mantra with a slow burn, the fear of imminent death building with each shallow breath of her lungs. "The time was never right, Castiel," she says, hyper-aware that her voice is wavering. "You were so preoccupied with managing Hela and Asher that I didn't think you'd accept the fact that I've only been trained for a few years," she admits, the shame creeping up inside. _But you've danced all your life, and that has to count for something_.

"I gave up Career training to learn how to dance, and I've never looked back since," she admits. "It's just as rigorous, and I needed something to fill my time… I thought that I could learn a weapon in three days and survive to impress my parents." She takes a deep breath, the rain pattering against her burgundy hood the only sound for a heartbeat, then two. "I guess that isn't going to happen, then," she admits, her throat feeling vulnerable as the point of his sword rests against the underside of her chin.

She lifts her chin adamantly, looking her district partner in the eyes. "Who's Charms?" she asks suddenly, knowing that her luck is being pushed to the edge. Crescentia is always clear-headed when angry, the words dripping smoothly off a silver tongue. _I don't like creating fights_, she thinks, wanting to bite her tongue. It makes her feel ashamed to take out her feelings on Castiel, but with his sword at her throat, he deserves it. _Anything that'll give me a respite_, she thinks desperately. It may hit below the belt, but she knows that if it makes him angrier, he will be clumsier should he try and drive his blade through her throat.

"None of your damn business," Castiel growls, dropping the sword from her neck. He holds it awkwardly at his side instead, eyes dejected. She relaxes her grip on the throwing knife and takes a precautionary step away from him. "I hate liars," Castiel says, meeting her gaze "I don't like being led on, and frankly, I'm offended that you felt like you could slip past me unnoticed."

He stops and turns, starting to walk in the opposite direction, back toward the Cornucopia. She follows, unsure but equally unwilling to remain behind in the dark woods alone. The hunt for Halley may have ended; not with fanfare or a trophy prize, but by the escalation of the last week culminating in a shift between the two of them.

"Something's brewing on the horizon," Castiel says quietly, his voice steely. "I don't feel like I've been able to connect with anyone very well, but you're helping keep everyone sticking together, somehow," he adds. "Maybe it's my grudges. Maybe it's filling the shoes of a leader. But with Talisa whispering into her tributes' ears, and Hela directly rubbing against me with every step I take, I feel like we're overdue for an eruption."

"I need you to be on my side, Crescentia. You're untrained, and I don't think I can fully trust you, but if the split is near, then I need numbers like you on my side, okay?"

Crescentia nods her head quietly, feeling quite downtrodden and still trying to process what had just happened, her heart hammering against her ribs. Castiel faces her again, and without a second thought, she slaps him, her hand connecting with the side of his face, her palm creating impact against his nose.

Castiel stumbles back. "What the _fuck_?" He asks.

"For holding a sword against my throat and then telling me you need me," Crescentia answers bitterly, the stinging in her palm feeling like justice. _Some kind of leader indeed_. "Siren and I aren't trained, but we'd rather stick with you than Hela. Maybe you can rope in the guys too." _Siren and I need to get out_, she repeats to herself, lying through her teeth.

_At the earliest opportunity._ Distance needs to be placed between herself and the rest of the Pack; for when it implodes, she does not want to be caught incinerated by the ensuing inferno.

Death works in funny ways, but it will not knock Crescentia unsuspecting off her feet.

She's not going to let it.

* * *

**Alton Kersey **(**18**), **District 4 Tribute**

**4:14 PM**

It had all happened much too fast.

Siren had been tearfully exclaiming her aversions to taking another life, the blood drying in crusts on her skin, and Moses stripping off half of his shirt to help scrub the red stickiness of blood from her forearms.

Moses had gone back into the Cornucopia to find a water bottle for her to drink from, and Alton had followed at a leisurely pace, his eyes trained on the prize in front of him. He closes his eyes and recalls the surprised noise Moses had made in the back of his throat as Alton's hand grazed the front of his pants, fingers dragging deliberately across his crotch. Alton felt a twitch beneath his fingers, and could taste the want on Moses' lips as he kissed his flame, this boyfriend of his being broadcast to national television. _And just like that, I stopped caring. _

_I don't care anymore_.

He doesn't care what his parents might think; his drunken dad and outspoken mother, his mocking siblings, even his friends. The salt and sweetness of Moses' tongue had been enough to drive him crazy, pressing the other boy against the smooth metal wall of the Cornucopia; the wall against which he now sits numbing his back. _It doesn't matter. Maybe it never mattered_, Alton muses, resting his chin on Moses' head. Alton could be a dead man in a minute, an hour, a day. With time slipping from his fingers like pearls wrought from the clamped jaws of an oyster, there isn't enough left to cast aside his truths.

_My truths. My life_.

Two sets of hands had worked magic up and down each other's bodies, groping hungrily until Alton was pulling off what's left of Moses' shirt, the fabric sliding smoothly off of his lustrous dark skin and toned muscles. Alton wanted to throw his head back and cry tears of joy as Moses' hands squeezed his ass, fingers dextrous and playful, and the world melts away as the air in the Cornucopia grows hotter and heavier. There had been the distinct sound of footsteps, and Alton had stopped his exploration of Moses' body, one hand on the shorter boy's ribs and the other resting between his thighs. Siren stood at the mouth of the Cornucopia, holding an already-opened canister that must have fallen from the sky.

Siren had grinned cheekily and produced a length of rope, a box of condoms and a small silver bottle of blueberry-flavored lube, which Alton hastily decides must be a byproduct of the Capitol's riches. She set them down on the crate and stripped with the same grace and ease as a dancer. Unashamed, and silhouetted by the sun in the mouth of the Cornucopia, she took a single step forward.

"Room for one more?" she'd asked calmly, suavely, holding up the length of rope and biting it between her near-perfect teeth. Siren's eyes had glittered with some sort of secret passion hidden behind her jade irises, full of unbridled lust and want.

_But who can blame her?_ Alton wonders aloud, his district partner sitting by his other side now, draped in his jacket with his teal-colored numbers emblazoned on the back. _Emotions run high every day, and she's out here encouraging everyone else to live their lives before the clock runs dry_. _What about Siren?_

_She_ certainly hadn't been dry, not by any means.

A glance of affirmation had passed between Alton and Moses, and despite the deep emotional affection the two boys share, there is a star-studded desire in his partner's dark brown eyes as they roam over Siren's shapely figure, the rope between her teeth finding a new home around Alton's wrists.

It had all happened much too fast.

Siren had let out a weak gasp, low and breathy as he entered her, throwing her head back so that her voluminous black hair formed an ebony arc in the air. She is born from the sea, her toned body carrying the same sinuous motion as the waves and the same slick coating on her bronze skin.

Moses presses himself against Alton, nibbling at his ear; twitching slightly and meeting Alton in the middle like the perfect pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. All thought died out of Alton's head, leaving only heat and wet and a sweet, slow drag and _burn_.

The moaning, a symphony born from their union of skin, reverberates inside the Cornucopia, with Siren shameless and sprawled out wide, wrapped around Alton's front with Moses' strong arms holding Alton close to his chest, their fingers lacing together tightly as if they are afraid to let each other go.

Alton can see nothing but starbursts behind his eyes, like a volley of fireworks has exploded behind shut eyelids, burning streaks of red and white sending tremors of pleasure through his veins. He pulls himself from the cascading wetness and bends down, his tongue probing her watery halls, chasing after that blueberry sweetness, and Alton almost bites his tongue as Moses' hips connect with him from behind, any semblances of modesty long forgotten.

_It had all happened much too fast. _

The sweet release came all too quickly for Alton, standing abruptly; a torrent of white-capped waves crashed against his district partner's stomach. She crooned softly, pushing her hair back from her eyes with a slender hand. Alton's hand found her breast, and he can taste the heat on her lips as they collide, the saltiness of the open sea ingrained within her tongue.

Moses grunts from behind him, and Alton briefly catches his breath, ribs rising and falling as Moses kisses Alton's jawline down to his neck. They are synchronous in movement, with Alton arching his back with Moses' release, the two joined in comforting unity.

When it is all said and done, the three of them rest against the side of the Cornucopia, where they have remained for the past few hours after the rain comes belting down from the sky, the venison wrapped and stored toward the back or the Cornucopia by Moses, who runs out into the bleak rain to make sure their hard work was not in vain.

"Call me crazy, but I don't mind the rain," Siren says quietly, wrapped in Alton's oversized jacket.

Alton is quiet for a heartbeat, listening to the sound of the downpour as it pings endlessly against the metal roof. The Cornucopia has grown cold to the touch, and Alton shivers, even despite pulling his black polyester shirt and teal blue windbreaker back on. "Me neither," he says instead, embracing the chill. _Suck it up, Alton_. "A little rain never hurt anyone, right?" he says, a charming grin stretching wide across his face.

Moses returns the grin, his hand finding Alton's in the muted periwinkle light that filters through the entrance of the horn, laying shadows across the three of them. _I feel content, for once_. The sex was unplanned, but Alton is beginning to understand that often it is the unplanned intricacies that make the world spin around and around. _I don't want to be the man everyone expects me to be all the time_, he thinks solemnly as Moses says something to Siren, the words lost in translation.

The storm lashes outside, the booming thunder sounding like a muted fanfare of cannons, and Moses shivers next to him. Alton almost jumps out of his skin when he hears grumbling voices from outside the Cornucopia, and he scrambles to grab his knife, the morningstar left at the entrance of the Cornucopia.

The grumbling stops and Alton can make out two blurry shapes through the haze of rain. Both have their hoods drawn; one burgundy and one yellow ochre. Alton breathes a sigh of relief. _District One. Not like anyone would dare get close to the Cornucopia, but in the rain, anything goes_.

Hell, the younger girl from Eight had done it without the guise of rain covering her back.

"Did you catch her?" Alton asks as the shapes tread closer, Castiel's sword dragging along the grass. Moses and Siren sit to attention immediately, a sudden awkward tension placed between the three of them.

"No, we didn't catch _it_," Castiel spits. "The _tribute_ got away. Simple as that," he says, shooting a dirty look at Crescentia. Alton's heart plummets immediately, and he exchanges a look with Moses, finding his own thinly masked disquiet reflected in his partner's eyes.

"I think it's about time we get all the lies out of the way," Castiel announces, his sword held menacingly in his hands. Gone is whatever jovial, happy-go-lucky leader they had followed during their brief stay in the Capitol; Castiel's attitude being replaced by something much harder and colder inside. "Anything you all want to say to me?" he asks curiously, eyes lingering across the three of them; landing on Siren with an arched brow, who is still covered in Alton's jacket. Alton looks down at his own wrists, decorated in rope burn, and tugs the sleeves of his windbreaker down as far as possible, clamping the ends with his palms.

"No? Well then," he says smugly. "Crescentia isn't even a real Career," he says blatantly, the girl's face dropping instantaneously with his words.

"You said you wouldn't fucking tell anyone!" Crescentia says indignantly, looking flighty and on edge, as if worry has permanently permeated her veins.

"Yeah well, the truth hurts, doesn't it?" Castiel bites back at his district partner. "What are the rest of you hiding from me?" he asks, blue bloodhound eyes finding the carcass of the deer left unattended in the grass, sodden from the rain. "What _have_ you been doing while we were gone? It's not like your job was a hard one," he begins, sneering, but Moses doesn't let him finish his sentence.

"Oh for fuck's sake, Castiel. No one said it was hard. But we haven't even left the Cornucopia in _two days now_, Moses intones angrily. "It's like you've almost forgotten that the rest of us are trained and willing to hunt alongside you. It's _ridiculous_!"

"Siren isn't," Castiel points out. "In fact, there are only _four_ functioning members of this Career Pack anyway, and one of them is off doing God knows what in the woods with her ginger-haired alter ego."

"Watch your damn mouth," Siren butts in, her voice raised for the first time. _You know it's bad when she interjects herself into an argument_. "Just because they handed you the leadership role doesn't mea-" she stops dead in her tracks as Crescentia shakes her head, blond locks limp from the rain.

"Just let us into the Cornucopia," Castiel growls. "I'm tired of being wet, and we're going to have to tough this one out without a fire." He pushes past Alton, shoulder connecting with his, and Alton bites back a noise from deep in his throat. _Castiel's dragging his own reputation through the mud... and into the shit_.

"I want you all," Castiel says, his back facing them as he shrugs off his wet jacket, "to think about where your allegiances lie." The words roll off his tongue deadly and smooth, with feline elegance that runs shivers up and down Alton's exposed spine, his olive shoulders prickling with goosebumps as the cold rain lashes the mouth of the Cornucopia. "Now that it's all out in the open, we all might as well," he says dispiritedly, voice echoing somberly against the same metal walls that had once been host to a symphony of moans and animalistic grunts.

_Where do my allegiances lie?_ Alton wonders, even if for a millisecond, mulling over the decision between Castiel and Hela, the two warforged titans duking it out on a frost-cold battlefield. But the answer comes back negative time and time again, with Alton's heart thudding in his chest, yearning to break free and love with an unyielding entirety. _With Moses. With Siren. _With those who make him feel grounded, grounded and comfortable with himself and confident in his sexuality, the smoothness of his feelings entrapped on camera and broadcast for millions of Panemian citizens to watch. _If they don't blur a mace crushing someone's head, why would they blur two cocks and a pair of tits?_ Alton wonders, a mixture of elation in his chest and disgust in his stomach as he remembers the red pulp of Mercedes' head, cranial matter burst and exploding against his calves, clinging to the spikes of his morningstar.

_Guts, glory and sex_, Alton thinks calmly, still riding a wave of euphoria.

_The unholy trinity of the Hunger Games_.

* * *

**ALLIANCES: **

* * *

_**Career Pack**_**: Castiel (D1M), Crescentia (D1F), Moses (D2M), Hela (D2F), Alton (D4M), Siren (D4F), Asher (D11M)**

_**Angsty Teen Romance II**_**: Sorrel (D5M), Nyx (D5F)**

_**The Beans Are Dead**_**: Winston (D7M), Padds (D9M)**

_**Shooketh**_**: Tangaria (D11F), Mariela (D12F)**

_**Flying Solo**_**: Axel (D6M)**

_**Aggression and Sunshine**_**: Darnius (D8M)**

_**From Ember to Flame**_**: Halley (D8F)**

_**The "Apex Predator"**_**: Ruben (D10M)**

_**Violet Violence**_**: Evanna (D10F)**

* * *

**Author's Note****: Another major gap in my inconsistent update schedule. A few of you saw what I had posted onto my profile roughly in the middle of this gap… for those who hadn't, I'll spare you the details. I do want to finish somehow within 2020, so as crunch time draws near, my updates will get more frequent, I do hope, whether I'm remotely motivated or not. In a similar vein, as suggested by a few fellow authors over on Discord, I have split this chapter into two parts of roughly equal lengths, a trend that is likely to continue in the hopes that I can push more frequent updates in smaller chunks, since updating has become this daunting task for me. The workload will seem more manageable and it will hopefully give off the impression that I know what I'm doing haha. The second part of this chapter will be released likely tomorrow, as it is about half a POV away from completion. Future split chapters may have a more significant gap between them - this was originally going to be posted as one whole chapter - but the gap should be much, much less than a month long mini-hiatus.**

**Chapter Questions are as follows:**

**1 - Apart from bashing both of the gingers in this cast (Brita and Asher), what are your thoughts on Sorrel and Nyx's current standing? **

**2 - Do you think Nyx was right to forgive him so easily out of mutual love, or do you think that Sorrel's explanation was less than genuine? **

**3 - Did you expect Castiel to confront Crescentia about her volunteering situation? **

**4 - Do you think it was irrational for Moses, Alton and Siren to have a threesome, or do you think it has strengthened their bonds as allies and partners? (Does adrenaline and fear make teenagers horny? Apparently in this chapter it does lmao.) **

**That's all from me right now, haha. Hope you all have a nice day/night! Stay safe out there and stay positive too! :D**


	24. Chapter 24: When It Rains, It Pours (P2)

"_So what if you can see the darkest side of me?_

_No one would ever change this animal I have become_

_And help me believe it's not the real me_

_Somebody help me tame this animal…"_

-Three Days Grace, Animal I Have Become

* * *

**CHAPTER 24**

**WHEN IT RAINS, IT POURS**

**NIGHT TWO, PART 2**

* * *

**Evanna 'Evie' Lynn **(**15**), **District 10 Tribute**

**6:17 PM**

There is a certain kind of fear that comes with being woken during the night; a fear which only grows exponentially on the whispering cusp of the next. _Everything has the potential to get much worse_, Evanna thinks solemnly. The sky has begun to darken, streaks of burning orange and navy blue that Evanna is able to glimpse between the trees as she trudges back to her shelter. She's been on high alert all day, ever since she had awoken in the night to an endless oily sounding rustling, her eyes frantically searching for any dark shapes beneath the moon.

But there were none, and Evanna hasn't seen a single soul in the arena since the boy from District Eight turned tail and ran away from her on the first day. _Can't tell if that's a good thing or not_, she muses, recalling the booming sound of the sixth cannon late in the afternoon. The sound could imply about a hundred different violent scenarios, but none of them involve Evanna, only merely concerning her. _I'll find out who died when the recap plays later tonight,_ she thinks, reassuring herself with the only structured event of the arena. Until the Panemian Anthem plays, and the death recap is broadcasted, the arena is timeless and all-consuming.

_But right now, all that matters is that the number of competitors has been reduced from eighteen... to seventeen. _Seventeen is a smaller number that stands between Evanna and the crown of Victory that District Ten hasn't seen for years, the crown that would ensure she gets home for good. _And then everyone will be proud of me, and everyone will know my name_. It is a fruitless fantasy, but one that Evanna must taste at the back of her tongue nonetheless.

After all, there are two ways that a tribute can leave the arena.

_Victory or death_.

Trying to keep herself focused on the physical realities of the day - as equally mundane and worrisome as they have been - Evanna surveys the injuries that cover her frail body. The number of small injuries that Evanna had received yesterday have been replaced with new ones; the scratch on her face and the bruises from Moses' fists giving way to new scratches, scrapes and bug bites that itch like crazy. With limited supplies, she decides that none are dire enough to merit the use of a bandage. The sterile white wrappings lay untouched in her dull brown backpack, and the best Evanna can hope for is that they will stay that way.

She feels exhausted, as if a mere two days spent in the forest is enough to permanently settle a sense of weariness deep into her bones, and she slumps against a tree, taking solace in the knowledge that her camp is just ahead behind all the undergrowth that faces her. Her campsite might not be the most well-protected shelter, but the uniform clearing around the massive tree should allow Evanna to spy any tributes trying to creep up on her in the night.

_In theory, anyway_, she thinks, still disturbed by the noises she had heard last night.

Evanna takes a moment to just pause and sit there, her bony chest rising and falling quickly as she catches her breath. She stares into the leafy boughs of the tree above her, and spies a few small black shapes growing from the branches. _Those are… mulberries?_ Evanna wonders, wracking her brain to remember the hours spent at the edible plants station in the Training Center. She stands up, bracing herself on the tree, and searches for a foothold, beginning the climb. _I've managed to find other kinds of berries so far,_ she thinks, rather amused at how easy it seems to get food in this arena. _Don't call it the Hunger Games for nothing, _she thinks sarcastically as she reaches the lowest cluster of the berries, plucking one from the stem it is growing on. Evanna inspects it for a moment before popping it into her mouth, using her tongue to squeeze a little juice from the berry. It is sweet, with a hint of tartness that suggests she has _most definitely_ found a mulberry tree.

Apart from the bread she had been sponsored - and promptly eaten last night - Evanna had managed to find wild blueberries growing in the undergrowth not too far from her campsite, identifiable by the five-pointed crown on the underside of the dusky blue berry, stems interspersed by tiny white and light pink flowers. Evanna had made sure to pick as many as she had seen, carrying them back to camp in the side pouch of her backpack. A few had been crushed, leaving the bottom stained a purplish color, but getting any kind of calories into her body is a priority, especially when there are heavier and stronger tributes still left alive.

She takes her time in savoring some of the mulberries, but makes sure to climb higher, pocketing the mulberries in the lower pocket of her black cargo shorts. Evanna hopes that they don't get crushed on her descent to the ground, where she has left her backpack. Once she reaches the third branch of clustered berries, she feels a droplet of wetness on her hand, and her stomach plummets. _It's going to rain again, isn't it?_ She holds her head with her hands, breathing deeply before pulling the dusty lavender hood of her nylon windbreaker over her head as the rain begins to pour faster from the sky. It sprinkles through the branches of the mulberry tree, making Evanna hyper-aware of each droplet that hits her body. There had been a momentary respite from the light showers in the afternoon, but the resurgence of rain is enough to make Evanna groan internally.

Despite how much she hates the rain, an opportunity in the Hunger Games would only be overlooked by a fool, and Evanna chooses to take each one she is presented with. Evanna cups her hands and lets some rain collect in her palms, raising her hands to her lips to drink, her lips making an annoying slurping sound. She had been able to find water, using the spile in her backpack to tap a tree, but the crystal clear taste of the cool rainwater is much better than the warm and slightly sugary taste of the tree-water.

Once she has had her fill, Evanna carefully descends from her perch in the tree, raindrops pinging like crazy off her waterproofed clothes. She jumps the last branch, landing on her feet, though fresh mud coats the sides of her boots. Evanna checks the berries in her pocket - mostly intact - before collecting her backpack. _Time to head back,_ she decides. _The tarp will help keep some of the rain off me_. She carries the backpack in one hand since it is light in weight, and takes off at a grueling pace, sprinting in the direction of her shelter.

Evanna reaches it momentarily, zipping up her black outer jacket as she does. The open clearing is an almost relieving sight, and she slows her jog as she breaks through the tree-line, setting her bag under the tarp before lowering herself to the ground and slipping underneath it. The grass is nice and dry, and Evanna peels her outer jacket off, keeping the dusty lavender windbreaker on. The rain makes a soft pitter-pattering noise on the surface of the tarp, stretched between the massive tree in the clearing and the decent-sized rock near it, between which she had chosen to create the impromptu shelter on the first day in the arena.

She can see the sky more clearly through the trees now, almost entirely a navy color now, though the charcoal rain clouds above have a fiery tinge around the bottom edge. _The sun is setting, _Evanna knows, becoming hyper-aware of how much more exponentially dangerous the arena becomes once the nighttime darkness settles in.

Evanna wraps her arms around her knees, stomach still unsatisfied with the meager meal, and carefully extracts the mulberries from her pocket. She pops one into her mouth and chews silently, straining her ears to listen for any sounds above the noise of rain hitting the tarp. She finishes off the berries and wishes vehemently that she had reapplied the insect repellant around her camp before it had started raining. _They've never bitten me in _here_,_ Evanna thinks miserably. _Only whenever I walk out into the woods, and even when wearing the damn spray_. She has used the spray more liberally than any of her other supplies, the citronella smell almost comforting to her, but it seems to only be effective when sprayed _around_ her rather than _on_ her.

Her musings are broken by a noise originating from the woods around the clearing, and Evanna is immediately placed onto high alert. _Maybe the boy from Eight is back?_ Evanna fishes her knife from the backpack, keeping her rain-slick fingers wrapped around the hilt as she peers cautiously from underneath the left side of the tarp. _Nothing_.

The story isn't the same on the right, where Evanna is confronted by the sight of a pair of legs clad in black cargo pants and military boots. _Fuck!_ She thinks, reeling back at the sight and stumbling back into the rain. The backsplash of rain against the tarp in-between her and the other tribute makes it hard to see them, but the tribute is smaller in stature, and feminine, with her hood raised to shield her face. There is silence, a tense heartbeat in which there is nothing but stillness. And then the other tribute lunges forward and snatches the backpack resting under the tarp, backing away quickly.

The familiar red haze begins to fill Evanna's head, and soon her irate counterpart is the one holding the knife. _What does this bitch think she's doing?_ Evie feels her eye tic and follows the other girl's lead, bracing a foot on the rock to lunge over her tarp. Evie collides with the other tribute, tackling her hard to the ground. Her knife slashes at the other girl, but she has struggled out of Evie's grip, wrenching her leg out from underneath Evie. The knife catches the girl in the leg; it is a shallow cut, but one which tears a hole in the leg of her trousers.

Evie pushes herself up and grabs the girl's shoulders roughly, taking notice of the _08_ emblazoned on her back as she slams the girl's back against the tree. "Who the hell do you think you are?" Evie roars, spittle flying from her mouth in fury, violet eyes filled with promises of violent retribution. "Is your district partner nearby?" she questions angrily, daring not to take her eyes off the enemy.

The girl from Eight shakes her head, hood slipping a little, but Evie doesn't believe her, using her forearm to push the girl harder into the tree. "Drop the bag," Evie instructs, jaw clenched. "Drop it!" she shouts impatiently, the girl cringing under her grip. It seems like she is trying to get her back off of the tree, but Evie wants to keep her pinned in place. That's when Evie feels the sensation in her hand, the strange thrumming she had felt coming from the tree yesterday.

Coupled with the sensation is the rustling noise Evie had heard the night before, and her eyes widen in fear, staring at the rough bark of the tree. Distracted, it takes Evie a moment to feel the knife as the steel is plunged into her upper thigh. "You little _bitch!_" she snarls, backhanding the District Eight girl across the face. Evie takes a step back and brandishes her knife, ready to charge the girl like a bull might, back home.

But Evie falters when she sees the mass of writhing dark amber shapes crawling from in between the ridges of the tree. _There are hundreds of them… like some army of ants._ The shapes begin a downward march down the trunk of the tree, and adrenaline begins burning like fire inside Evie. _The girl. The bugs. _The insect repellant is within the bag that Evie's adversary carries in her hand, and Evie's primal instincts tell her that she _needs to get that backpack_.

She lunges at the girl, the two falling in a heap next to the tree, but the two roll away as the inch-long ants get closer to the ground. Evie brings her knife down toward the girl's neck, but misses when the girl's foot connects with Evie's knee, sending her sprawling. "Give me-" she struggles to say, panting, "-the backpack!"

The girl - Halley, she remembers - takes a step back as Evie charges, and feints to the right, away from the tree. Evie follows the motion, knife in hand, and is surprised when the girl twists to the right, slashing the knife across Evie's stomach. Evie yells in fury and yanks the backpack out of Halley's grip, almost gloating triumphantly at the maneuver. However, with the bleeding injuries to Evie's thigh and stomach, she decides that Halley needs to pay her dues of death.

_Halley Verron_, Evie thinks murderously as she tackles the girl again, the two crashing into the tarp, _I sentence you to death_. But any gleeful words do not come from her mouth; rather, a long and drawn out scream as she feels something crawling on her leg. She flinches as she feels several inch-long ants march beneath the tapered end of her cargo pants, and a blood-curdling scream escapes from her lips as she feels a pair of mandibles break her skin.

The pain is excruciating, and Evie uses her left foot to scrape at the ants that have crawled onto her right. She crawls forward, pinning Halley's arm down on top of the tarp, and looks behind her. The mass of ants has not followed, instead seemingly frozen in place where Evie had sprayed the repellant onto the grass in the morning. They seem to line up behind one another, rows of ants in an army that is stopped by a line of citronella and insecticide. Evie shudders in revulsion before turning her attention back to Halley, knowing she is safe for the moment, even though her leg is burning white-hot with pain where the ant had bit her.

"You have two options," Evie growls through gritted teeth, her knife pointed down at Halley's face. She is painfully aware of the agony in her leg, her stomach, her thigh. _Too much, too much, too much!_ "I kill you now," she snarls, "for trying to fuck with _my_ supplies. Or you throw yourself to the ants and we find out if they're muttations or not." Halley scowls, her emerald green eyes filled with a mixture of fear and hatred. Evie grins cruelly back at her, shrugging and lifting her knife, the blade slick with the rain.

The grin is wiped from her face when she feels the knife enter her body for the second time, pain flaring in her chest like a supernova. Evie chokes and drops her knife in the grass as Halley pushes the knife deeper, the girl's eyes wild with terror and fear. Evie groans in pain, fighting the urge to scream, but it's all happening too fast as she loses her grip on Halley and falls roughly onto the grass, her eyes facing the army of ants frozen before her.

_Victory or death._ The words echo from some empty chamber in her head, the latter ringing endlessly in her ears as her vision darkens and she is no longer able to distinguish the ants' shape from the grass. She is only able to feel alight with pain, a symphony of aching agonies that send her over the edge.

There is a freezing kind of numbness, and then the darkness obstructs her vision and mind completely, her consciousness slipping into hazy nothingness.

A cannon fires, and the ants retreat.

* * *

**Asher Foster **(**17**), **District 11 Tribute**

**6:39 PM**

"I'd sooner slap the living shit out of you, Wolfchild." Castiel shakes his head in disdain, his expression mocking. There is a thick layer of tension that has fallen upon the seven Careers, sitting huddled underneath the chilly metal structure of the Cornucopia as the second storm of the night rages around them.

"Is that a threat?" Asher asks menacingly, his eyes narrowed at their golden-haired leader. His verbal foe is sitting across from him, his throat bared as he rolls his eyes exasperatedly toward the ceiling. _It would be so damn easy to tear his throat out, _Asher thinks. He's done it several times on the streets of Eleven, using his canines and jackal claws to render a rival helpless to do anything more than choke on their own lifeblood.

_It's a guilty pleasure_, he thinks darkly.

Castiel's lips turn upward into a sneer. "Not an idle one," he avows angrily.. "I sure as hell don't remember asking _you_ to link up with the rest of us." _And I sure as hell don't remember electing _you _to lead us_, Asher thinks grimly. Sure, he hadn't been formally invited to join the Career Pack until the first night of training, when Hela had sauntered up to his apartment floors in the dark, her head held tall and proud.

"_We'll take out the Careers, from the inside out. Starting with Castiel,"_ he recalls, the words resounding dark and residual inside his head. "_I'm all for it,"_ he had agreed, excitement pumping through his veins. _A real chance to stick one to the Capitol and all their machinations_, he thinks gleefully.

"_We can take them."_

It's simple. When you're in charge, your followers are eventually going to want you dead.

The clear and booming sound of a second cannon breaks through the sodden sky above, the first having shot off in the late afternoon. _A second cannon?_ Asher ponders. _Things are speeding along nicely_, he thinks with an internal chuckle, exhaling briefly from his nose. _The less competition that I'll have to face once the volatile Career Pack has been disbanded and dealt with, the better_, Asher thinks ruefully. The Careers sit in silence for a moment, listening for a second cannon through the noises of rain and thunder.

"Only one. Must have been one of the loners," Moses assumes. _There aren't any alliances larger than ours_, Asher thinks, _but it'd be easier for Hela and I to take on a lone tribute rather than two or three. _

_Less room for error_. In the Hunger Games, there are no do-overs, as Asher has begun to learn the hard way when District Five slips from their clutches earlier in the morning, with both injured and he and Hela breathless from exertion, his ally - and maybe his partner, though he doesn't want to go down that line of thinking - trying to mask her feelings of shame from losing their hunting quarries. "Someday you'll choke on the shit you talk, Castiel," Asher offers, a cocky grin on his face. It's easier to joke than to gibe at his opponents, though the same mocking undertone remains present in his speech.

"Fuck you," Castiel groans. "I'm so sick and tired of everyone treating me like I'm some kind of villain," he complains, running pale fingers through his tousled hair, still wet from the rain of the first storm. Asher and Hela had later, it would seem, once the first rainstorm had passed and the two had worked their way up and out of the valley again, both tight-lipped and silent the entire time. _What does she feel anymore? _he wonders, the thought as fleeting as it has been for the past two days; two days of cat-and-mouse, neither openly admitting anything regarding the momentous kiss they had shared on the balcony the night before launch, with the city lights dim and dazzling around them.

"Oh, is that why you were so quiet yesterday?" Siren pipes up, her normally calming attitude gone. _I would have never expected her to get so worked up, _Asher thinks, surprise forming unspoken words at the front of his lips. _She's normally so reserved and calm_. "And why did _both_ of you force us to skin your deer?"

Asher glowers at her. "At least we actually killed something worth eating. Castiel and I _did_ something today," he says bitingly, ready to shut Siren down and out of the argument. "But it would seem like the three of you _wasted_ time rather than actually _cooking_ the venison so we would have something to eat right now!"

"Don't blow smoke up your own ass," Alton says, his eyes furious and his voice condescending. "We aren't the pariahs here, you are."

"That's a bit rich coming from you," Hela says coolly. Her emerald green eyes are full of livid restraint, and Asher can see her biting on the inside of her lip to stop herself from saying more.

"Oh shut the hell up," Castiel says offhandedly, gesturing with his hands. "Don't attack Alton, you didn't even pull your own weight during the bloodbath," their leader says, criticizing her. _He's trying to win over support from District Four_, Asher notices, his keen eyes seeing right through the tactic. Diplomacy and politics on the streets are much the same, but with weapons and a stake in surviving to see the next day on the line. _I suppose it's not much different_. "I mean come _on_," Castiel continues. "That fucking loser from Ten beat you in a fight, and you let him run away!"

"Like your fighting style was _so_ successful," Hela says coldly. "You focused on some helpless little girl because you knew that she was the only one you were remotely capable of handling." Castiel looks affronted at Hela's words, but she presses onward, her tongue sharp with razor wit. "Seems like there were four twelve-year-old girls in the arena after all," she says, staring pointedly at Castiel.

He moves as if he is going to stand up, eyes blazing, but Crescentia takes a hold of his wrist to keep him in check. "Don't escalate things, Castiel," she mutters. Asher snorts derisively, and he can feel a few sets of eyes burn into him. _We're a bunch of Careers. It's what we do, escalating things_. Asher escalated things in the bloodbath himself, with Arley writhing in his grip before he drags the knife across her throat. It is a kill that feels different than the lives he has taken back home in Eleven, the lives that earned him a warrant from the officials. _Killing for survival must be different than killing for sport_, he thinks, a sick and twisted feeling creeping low into his chest.

"You all underperformed too," Hela says out defensively. "Both of you," she continues, eyes centered on the pair from District One, "let the two lovers from Five get away, not even mentioning Alton joining in to chase after them." Asher bites his tongue, grateful that she does not mention the failed exploit to hunt down the two Fives. _Luck can't be on their side forever, _he decides. _If we're lucky, there'll be another cannon later tonight for Sorrel_. The wound didn't look deep enough, but Asher prays that they don't have bandages on hand. _Then we can at least say we were successful._

"Really?" Alton retorts. "I crushed a girl's _skull_." His voice shakes slightly, a hitch in his breath that has Moses holding his hand tighter. Asher notices that Siren is wearing Alton's jacket, and furrows his brow. _Why are the three of them so close all the sudden?_ "One of the tributes you told us to eliminate," Alton says quietly, any normal ounce of flamboyant confidence lost from his tone and replaced with the same terse aggression that seems to permeate every pore of the Cornucopia.

"You told us to defend the Cornucopia," Moses accuses Castiel. "So how is it our fault for 'underperforming?'" he asks, cutting Castiel off before the other boy can reply. "I'm sick of you relegating the bitch work to the three of us and then getting all worked up over us for jobs we _haven't been able to do_," Moses finishes. Clearly the argument has spanned much longer than what Asher and Hela had played witness to, with the aggression turning on them after less than a fifteen-minute respite from the storm. Alton nods fervently beside Moses, but Siren seems lost in thought, her eyes wandering outside the Cornucopia.

"And you let Ruben get supplies from it anyway," Castiel says. "If you all can't work as a team, then how am I supposed to lead?" _Classic manipulation_.

"Are you really still mad about the bloodbath?" Crescentia chimes in, looking in awe at her district partner. "Just let it go. We have a long road ahead of us and we don't need you hanging onto the past!"

"No," Castiel says sharply. "I'm not _mad_. I'm _frustrated_ that we haven't made any progress as a team! I mean come on, there are seven of us for crying out loud!"

"And you lost track of what today?" Asher asks mockingly, feeling powerful as the words leave his mouth. "The little girl from Twelve and the little girl from Eight? Maybe Hela was right."

"Well of course you think Hela was right!" Castiel groans, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. "The two of you are practically joined at the hip." Asher glances sideways at his ally, who looks like she is going to open her mouth to protest the fact before Castiel continues. "And did _Hela_ whittle down the competition at all?"

Asher clenches his fists in anger. He's used to shoving his insecurities and doubts deep down, locked away behind the bars of his ribcage, but listening to Castiel attack Hela is like having his own ego slighted.

"There have been two cannons today and neither was caused by us. Let's all just agree that we've been a bunch of useless Careers and call it a day," Crescentia says, clearly trying to keep the argument civil and contained. _She's too polite for this kind of shit_. "I'd rather stay out of this argument," she explains, exchanging a glance with Siren. There is some kind of message relayed between them, but Asher isn't able to discern what it may have meant.

Hela fake-coughs beside him. "Leadership issues," she mumbles under her breath, making sure she is easily heard by all parties present.

"Like _you_ could have done any better in my stead," Castiel gripes. "You think you're God's gift to mankind or something, and it's sickening."

"Castiel, you're being unreasonable," says Moses, his eyes betraying a sense of concern and slighted pride. "You don't have to insult the rest of us, you know. You aren't better than everyone here."

"I just want her to accept the fact that she's lying to herself!" Castiel retorts, pointing an accusatory finger at Hela, whose eyes darken with the gesture.

Hela sneers at him, a loud and haughty laugh escaping her lips. The mocking noise echoes in the empty horn, only to be drowned out by the drumming of the rain above. "If you'll accept the fact that you're a deranged and scared little boy," she retaliates. "What's with the open grudge against Seven? Or are you planning on not telling any of us why you have a stick up your ass?"

"It's none of your business," Castiel growls. "What's with the grudge against me?"

"You aren't my idea of a leader."

"Not a bone in _your_ body screams 'leader' to me," he taunts. "Might as well have been doing something more productive with your sad little life than wasting it training for an event you know you'll lose."

"You take that back, you fucking bastard!" Hela shouts, her composure snapped in two and stitched back together in the frame of a second, her expression filled with fury. Asher feels unnerved by her reaction, and sits himself closer to Hela, who doesn't flinch at his new positioning.

"Low blow, Castiel," Asher snaps back. "I may not be trained, but you two have and that was uncalled for."

"Oh, stop being so egotistical, _Wolf Boy_," Castiel says, using Hela's nickname for him. Asher can feel the anger bubbling in his chest, but chooses to remain calm and keep his wits about him. _It is always an effective measure, anyway_.

"I didn't vote for you for a reason, Castiel," Moses chimes in. "You remember the night of the parade? I didn't need to vote, but if I had, we wouldn't be in this mess," he says, voice as hard as iron.

"Oh, really? Well consensus picked me and I have the highest score-"

"Moses, stay out of it," Alton tells his partner quietly.

"See? He's deranged," Hela laughs. "Absolutely deranged. My score was the exact same."

"And you're deluded," Alton remarks, making Moses' eyes widen in confused shock.

"What do you mean, stay out of it? You literally just…? It's just as much our fight as t-"

"Listen to Kersey," Asher says snidely, breaking into their conversation. "That way you won't get your pathetic little head torn off."

"Excuse me?" Moses asks angrily, standing up. "I'm not _fucking _pathetic! Don't ever call me- what kind of f-" he splutters, his insecurity practically bleeding through the air. Asher gives him a wolfish grin and lazily pulls out his titanium claws, the metal tips stopping Moses in his tracks as they dig into his chest. The entire mood of the Cornucopia shifts

"You're really going to pull a weapon?" Siren asks incredulously, bringing six sets of eyes squarely onto Asher. _Peace was never an option, not with them_.

"_We can take them."_

"Ugh! We've got bigger targets to worry about," Castiel says, throwing up his hands and pushing himself off the ground and into a standing position. There is nowhere to go but out, and Castiel throws up his yellow ochre hood, stepping into the rain.

"Whatever you say, you maniac," Hela shouts, the last laugh taken and placed into her pocket. Castiel flips her off as the rain begins to pelt him, and Moses and Alton give each other a look before getting up to go and join his quickly retreating figure, with Siren shrugging off Alton's jacket and handing it back to him before retrieving her own, clothes looking disheveled beneath it.

At the end of the day, it doesn't matter if the conflict between the Pack has been resolved or not.

Lines have already been drawn in the sand.

* * *

**Darnius Paisley **(**16**), **District 8 Tribute**

**9:00 PM**

The blue luminescence of the death recap blinks gradually into existence, the twilight forest around him awash in a somber blueberry glow. Darnius bites the inside of his lip, chewing on the skin behind his teeth in silence as the Seal of the Capitol is projected into the sky, the Panemian anthem blaring from the inky nighttime sky. Halley rests against his side, her cheekbone on his shoulder. She has barely said a word to him since she reappeared late in the afternoon - Darnius having felt panicked and alone at her departure - save to present him a medicated bandage for the hand she had cut last night, which had already begun to scab over.

"_Why did you come back?"_ he wants to ask her, unable to fathom why his distrustful district partner had returned a second time, after their promise for the first night had been fulfilled. Both of the cannons had sent shivers through a sedentary Darnius; shivers of fearful anticipation that he would see Halley Verron's face in the sky, silhouetted in the same serene blue glow.

The anthem fades, and like last night, skips across the Careers from One and Two, instead forming the headshot of the girl from District Three. _Damn_, Darnius thinks, a mixture of pity forming in his stomach. _Three doesn't have anyone left to root for_. He remembers briefly considering an alliance with Brita as the countdown wound down to zero, the two of them the only tributes facing away from the allure of the great golden horn. _And now she's dead_. Her face fades out and is replaced by another, the second cannon of the day, and one that causes Halley to inhale sharply beside him. The face of the girl from District Ten is broadcast into the sky, with the sweet smile she had displayed during the interviews rather than the irate grimace she had worn when Darnius ran into her just yesterday. _I didn't even see a hovercraft for her_.

The Anthem of Panem gradually becomes quieter, until the projection blinks out of existence, the dark impermeable gloom of the forest creeping back into Darnius' peripherals. The two of them sit quietly, Halley stilling her breathing until the only reason he knows she is there is because of her weary weight against his arm. _She had been out of breath when she found me again,_ Darnius thinks. Halley's face had been almost as ruddy as the red ochre coloration of her windbreaker, her eyes wild and clutching a second backpack - a new one - her old backpack looking heavier than it had on her back.

_Did… did Halley take one of their lives?_ He wonders, casting a sidelong glance at his district partner. _Would she even be capable?_ An iota of paranoia sparks in his brain, quelled by the unfamiliar feeling of the bandage wrapped around his hand. _She has saved me, though_, Darnius thinks. Regardless of the dark places his district partner may have needed to go today, she came back for him with a number of small salvations that Darnius knows he will forever be grateful for. _And what have you done for her in return, Darnius?_

"Two deaths today," he says, breaking the silence and effectively ending his own trail of thought before it can turn deeper. "We're down to just seventeen, Halley." _The odds are beginning to improve_, he thinks, ever hopeful for the outcome despite the crushing speed at which he is hurtling toward the inevitable abyss of his own death.

"Seventeen…" Halley mumbles. "Are we numbers, or sheep? Tributes? People? I'm not so sure anymore, Darnius," she says hoarsely, eyes cast listlessly toward the river just a short distance from their perch, his view partially obscured by the low-hanging branches of its neighbors.

"Seventeen _people_," Darnius offers helpfully, though the sudden foray into a more profound emotion has him squirming with uncomfortableness.

"Sixteen corpses," Halley says quietly, looking slumped. "Darnius, I… I just… know how the girl from Ten died, and it wasn't pleasant," she manages to choke out. "For either of us."

"Is that where the second bag came from?" Darnius asks, likely a little sharper than he needed to be. "Gross, but I guess it's pretty commendable for you to sneak in and take it once they were done with her," he says, the insinuation of bloodthirsty Careers being just enough an explanation for him.

"Darnius, you don't understand. _I killed her_." Halley breaks into a sob, the emotion completely unexpected from this battle-hardened girl, and the weight of her words fall heavy between them. "The worst part," she begins, gulping a lungful of air, "the worst part is that I don't feel _bad_ for doing it. I just feel so, _so_ tired."

Darnius blanches, despite his earlier assumption, and awkwardly watches Halley wipe thin tear tracks from the corners of her eyes. Darnius wraps an arm around her shoulders and pulls her close to his chest, as they had been before launch, both tearful and locked in an embrace; the maw of death looming low over their heads. "_You think we'll be joining them soon? Our parents?"_ Darnius had asked, each pushed to the brink and trying to remain strong. _Trying to keep my head on my shoulders_.

"My mom died when I was very little," Darnius says, faltering with his sudden divergence from the issue at hand. "I never got the chance to remember her apart from the horrible story my Dad used to tell me when he was drunk, about how he had found her the morning after, bled out on the streets with enough whip marks on her back to count a census for all of District Eight. Like her death was the only thing in this world that mattered to him, and not the fact that he had a son to look after," he says with a breathy pause.

"Like it was my fault she died." Halley looks up at him, the moon reflected in her vibrant green eyes, and Darnius bites back the emotions he has fought so hard to control all his life, feeling unsure now that the dire straits of the Hunger Games threaten to bring them crawling up to the surface of his skin. "It's not entirely your fault she died," he says, clenching his jaw.

"You distance yourself to stay sane," Darnius adds pensively, sitting as still as a statue. "The nightmares get easier if you pretend it wasn't your fault. If you know that _that_ is what it took for you to survive, then it has to be worth it somehow, right?" Halley nods quietly, detaching herself from him.

"If you say so." She draws her jacket closer, the chilly rain only feeling colder now that they are apart, separated by a chasm that has been worn and refilled more times in this last week than Darnius can count. "I just… I feel numb. I don't really want to talk about it, I guess," she says. The pair sits in a stifling silence for a moment, listening to the rain drip down between the leaves, and Darnius mulls things over in his head.

_I can't be my own sovereign if I'm staying with her_, he ponders. Every single person you let yourself love takes away part of that mobility, that self-control and reliance. _But this is someone I can't leave on her own, even if she has been for the last four years_. "Halley?" he asks, looking down at the girl with the weathered eyes as if she has seen too much rain and not enough sun; "Would you feel comfortable if I finally proposed an alliance?" Uncertainty laces his voice. _It's hard to trust others, and clearly harder still for Halley. But we'd stand a better shot at getting one of us home if there were only fifteen people we each had to worry about_.

Halley nods solemnly, as if mirroring his thoughts. "Better one of us than neither of us," she nods, wrapping her arms around her knees. _Truer words couldn't be said_, Darnius thinks. He's been yearning for the comfort and familiarity that his shattered life somehow provides him, a thought persistent with him throughout. There is hope. _There is hope._ There has _always_ been hope, even if Darnius has been too blinded to see it, lost in the sullied recession of pining after the things that the Capitol has taken from him. _There isn't a clear way out, and the only way out might be _through. Through the darkness, the untimely troubles and the charade of death; the scales tipped entirely out of his favor, but Darnius will be damned if he doesn't find a way to make it work for him.

"One can hope," he says quietly, knowing that if nothing else but the guise of spite, _hope_ is what has kept Halley alive and kicking on the uninviting streets back home, where clouds of smog linger low in the air and there is more than enough misery and despair. "Make me a promise, Halley?" he asks, the words spinning faster than he can articulate them. "If one of us is to get back… and you return in my stead, look after my dad, okay?" he pleads, the words raw in his throat. _Look after someone who stopped caring about me. Look after him so that Dad doesn't lose whatever fragmented hope he has left._

"I promise, Darnius," she says, the words slow to form on her tongue, as if a promise bears another burden for her buckled shoulders. She shifts into a crouch, gripping the tree and beginning to descend into the gloom; away from the skyscrapers of the rich and into the same unrelenting situation. "I've got to take a piss. I'll be back," she says calmly, though Darnius is more than aware that what she seeks is the oppressive silence in which she can contemplate their exchange. _She deserves more than a life of solitude_, he decides, wondering if he should follow her into the darkness.

Although he knows Halley is coming back, seeing his only tether to reality leaving _again_ is not an easy emotion to process; the girl who he had helped clean vomit off her dress, who had punched him after the parade and whom he'd held close the night before they launched into this accursed forest. It doesn't matter for the moment that there can only be one victor. _I just want the two of us to survive as long as we can_, Darnius thinks mournfully, dipping his head.

Her departure spells a return to the normal gloom of the nighttime forest, and Darnius shifts slightly in the tree, catching a beam of moonlight across his knees, unfolding the small, worn piece of paper he keeps in his pocket. Darnius scans the hastily written words on the page, reminded of his girlfriend's rough scribbling on paper; his arms wrapped around Arya's waist, planting fleeting kisses in her neck, her fiery red hair, until she slips the paper into his front pocket with a desperate kiss to match his own. His eyes well up with tears, salty and unbidden, hands shaking despite having read her words each night since they had been separated by whatever behemoth challenge he faces.

_A thousand words won't bring you back, my love_

_To the smoke-filled sea, upon which my tears do dissipate._

_Embrace the darkness, and walk in the shadows_

_Know I'll wait for you, with all my heart, back home in the light._

Darnius closes the paper, his eyes wandering to the porous moon shining down from above. _Is she watching the same sky as I am?_ He wonders, softly reminiscing about the brief whirlwind romance with Arya, falling head over heels so quickly for the girl who had turned her nose at first glance, judging the ragged boy with his poetry books. _From different walks of life, _Darnius muses. _And she still managed to be all the sunshine in my life_.

Darnius closes his eyes and exhales, feeling grounded and at peace with the twisted world around him. And then he hears the noise; a sharp solitary clicking, like the ghostly sound of someone snapping their fingers.

It is accompanied by the muffled _snap_ of a broken branch and the rustle of leaves that suggest a much, _much_ bigger presence than his district partner.

* * *

**Axel Richthofen **(**16**), **District 6 Tribute**

**10:01 PM**

The dark and shadowy trees offer Axel a small semblance of coverage as he creeps lonesome and unseen through the undergrowth, keeping his eyes trained on the lone boy sitting in the crooked embrace of a tree. The other tribute's silhouette is barely visible in the weak silvery light of the moon that struggles to illuminate the silent sentinel in which he is perched. Axel holds his karambit tightly in his hand, the weapon having been sent from an anonymous sponsor earlier in the day. The canister had woken him, late in the morning, the curved and wicked black metal blade fitting perfectly into his trained hand. _It's familiar_, he thinks wanly. _It'll do the job _right _for once_, he muses, pausing to catch his breath as the rain drizzles all around him.

Axel's breaths are quick and shallow; noiseless and as ephemeral as the rushing river behind him, his limbs fluid and sinuous like the curling snake tattoo on his left arm as he maneuvers quietly through the brush. _Strike fast, strike hard. Get them down when they least expect it. Humiliate them. Make them pay._ He's done it hundreds of times, knife and fist connecting with the various debtors and druggies created by Yorusco's illicit drug transfers. _Like clockwork_.

His hood is drawn to shield his eyes from the downpour, both covering his dirty blonde hair and making him melt into the shadows, the familiar weight of fabric on his head almost comforting to him. He can't tell if his target is sleeping or not, but creeps forward anyway, working his way toward the base of the tree. Once directly beneath him, Axel snaps his fingers, a muffled clicking noise barely audible above the nearby river. He hears no movement above him; no shifts in position, and decides to begin climbing. _I'll cut his stupid fucking throat and take his supplies, _Axel runs it through his head. After all. he is merely a survivalist.

"_There's an art to fighting dirty, Axel,"_ he had been told. "_You do anything to paint the world red and survive another day. That's all there is to it."_

He pulls his military overcoat off and uses it to cover the backpack he had secured from Mercedes, leaving both at the base of the tree. His nylon windbreaker blends into the bleeding gray shadows of the night, the coat matching the gloomy and colorless scenery. Axel grins and lifts his knife, biting it between his teeth, keeping pressure on the blade as he begins the climb. _Like a pirate_, he thinks with a devilish grin. Axel has lost count of how many times he had slipped into the abandoned theater two blocks from his father's rundown apartment - life falling apart and crumbling with the ashes of his transportation empire - to tinker with the projector, squinting to watch the flashes of color and light dance across the torn screen. The intricacies of the act aren't lost on him, and Axel's thoughts wander momentarily into the dark as he continues up the length of the tree. His hands seek crevices in the tree bark, hoisting himself as quietly as he can. _Strike like a snake. Quiet. Dangerous_. Axel stills his breathing, listening intently above him. _A lethal weapon_, he thinks with a suppressed smirk.

_The target is definitely alone_.

Target. Tribute. Boy. Three words, each interchangeable when the corruption of the human race has cornered and condemned him to this hellish prison, a dirty penance he is unworthy of. The drive of survival is what sets the neurons in his brain alight; it's always been a sense of survival and self-righteousness that fueled Axel. _Driven with a purpose_, he thinks ruefully as his hand grips the branch above, his muscles straining to haul himself up onto the slick branches.

He completes the ascension and crouches low on the tree, the shape of the other tribute barely visible, a silver curve of moonlight softly rising and falling with his breath. The danger and unease of the situation is thrilling, a pumping of pure adrenaline sparking a fire into his limbs. Axel gingerly removes the knife from between his teeth, jaw sore from clenching it too hard, and slinks around the bulk of the tree trunk to come face-to-face with his target.

_Whose eyes are wide open_.

The target does not move, but inclines his head toward Axel, warm cider orange undertones barely visible underneath his jacket. The boy's eyes bore into Axel's own, and they stay locked in a silent ceasefire for one heartbeat, two.

"Get out of my tree and I won't stab you," the boy says, furrowing his brow into a scowl. Axel says nothing, instead keeping a close and tense watch on the boy's empty hands, waiting for him to produce a knife. _As if_. Axel immediately dislikes the boy, the harsh words crashing into the deafening silence. _Unbelievable_.

"Your knife," Axel monotonously states, outstretching his palm. "Give it to me."

The other boy looks up in disbelief, slowly sliding one leg off of the tree. "Cat got your tongue, or is the pleasure mine?" Axel asks, a condescending tone shifting in his voice as he looks down at the boy beneath him, whose eyes flick desperately to the forest floor. "Go ahead," Axel says quietly. "Break a leg."

The target slips from the tree, dark shape disappearing from Axel's view with an ensuing grunt. He shakes his head and follows the boy - whose jacket allowed Axel to read a miserable _08_ on the back - to the ground, dropping like a lynx as his boots connect onto the mossy floor with a wet noise. He straightens his spine, the two of them standing tensed, facing each other as Axel walks in a predatory semi-circle around the boy from District Eight.

His eyes never leave Axel, and Axel's never leave him. _No weapon. No backpack. Worthless to me._

_Easy pickings_, Axel thinks scathingly.

"Let me go my own way and I'll let you go yours," Darnius says, voice taking on a hard edge of aggression. His hands are curled into fists, knuckles white from tension. The boy is slightly stockier than him, but without a weapon, Axel is confident that he will have the edge in combat.

"No," Axel says, tilting his head to the side, a smug smirk finding its way onto his normally unemotive face. _Just like insulting Mercedes_, he thinks, the memory of his ill-fated district partner crushed beneath his heel.

"What do you want from me?" Darnius asks, fists balled tighter. _Cute_, Axel thinks sarcastically. _Nothing like delaying the inevitable_.

"The flock needs to be winnowed a little," Axel says candidly, spreading his arms. "You seem to have the shortest end of the stick, wouldn't you say?"

"Not at all, bitch," Darnius retorts sharply, spitting and taking a firm step backward. _Bitch?_ Axel grimaces, hostile words forming on the tip of his tongue. It might be a paltry insult, but an insult unchecked is one that damages Axel's reputation.

_All I wanted was his supplies,_ Axel thinks savagely, stepping toward his own and slinging them onto his back, a plan forming in his head. _Think on your feet_. "Talk back to me again," Axel taunts, inclining his chin. "You'll end up in the same place either way."

_Six feet under_.

"You're just a rotten asshole," Darnius mumbles, taking another step back as Axel advances, the stealth of a predator in his movements.

"Good. Bad. Asshole. I'm the guy with the knife, _Darnius_," he says, hissing the name as if it is poison on his lips. He lifts the karambit and lunges at Darnius, who staggers further backward, righting himself against the tree he had fallen out of.

"Not anymore," a trembling voice calls out from Axel's left. _An ally?_ Axel wonders, almost laughing when the new voice reveals itself as belonging to Darnius' little district partner, Halley. She hands him a knife, a second already gripped tightly in her own fingers. _May the odds be ever in your favor,_ Axel thinks wryly.

"Little twelve year old coming to your rescue?" Axel asks bitingly. "Look who's a little fucking _bitch_ now?"

Darnius roars in anger and charges Axel, a surge of confidence brought by the knife that he hadn't been expecting. Axel thrusts his arm out, the curved blade of his karambit catching Darnius fully by surprise. The boy throws up a bandaged hand, foolishly, to block it, and the smooth black blade gets its first taste of blood as the metal sinks deep through the palm of Darnius' hand, going out the back. Darnius howls and draws his knee in to kick Axel's thigh. Axel falls backward slightly, tearing the knife out as he falls. And then the little girl from Eight is on his shoulders, a flash of silver moonlight in Axel's peripheral, and he jams his elbow into her ribs, sending her sprawling down the slope of grass toward the winding and lazy onyx-blue river.

The three of them stand tensely for a heartbeat under the luminescence of the moon, with Darnius to his front and Halley to his side, both clutching their knives. _Relax, Axel. Don't tense up. Fluid motions. _Advice from

Volvo comes streamlining to his brain, and Axel releases the tension from his shoulders, waiting for either tribute from Eight to attack him. He can feel Halley's footsteps vibrating through the earth, and swings around to attack her, using his leg to sweep her feet from underneath her, while simultaneously throwing a punch into her skull on the way down.

There is no cannon, but Halley stays down, unmoving and immobilized. _Good. One less asshole to focus on._

Axel rounds on Darnius, pivoting on his heel, and the other boy takes a matching step forward, lunging at Axel. "What the hell did you do to her?" He cries, provoked and angrier, the knife swung in a loose arc at Axel's head. Axel ducks down and thrusts the karambit into his stomach, the blade glimmering with droplets of scarlet, like a waterfall of rubies shattering upon the earth. Darnius grunts as the karambit comes out of his skin, biting back an animalistic scream; and Axel is reminded of exactly what they are.

Two animals cornered into a fight.

Two animals broadcasted onto a show.

_Two animals enter, one animal leaves._

Axel smirks and takes a step back down the grassy slope, backing himself up against the swirling river. Hours of action flicks viewed in a dilapidated theater race through his memory as Darnius follows suit, clutching the knife in one hand and his stomach with the other, tides of scarlet and ichor pumping between his dirty fingers. Darnius takes a defensive stance, and Axel half-crouches to the ground, moving in a wolf-like circle around Darnius. The other boy looks wary, and keeps glancing at his compromised District partner. Axel lunges inward, but Darnius blocks the attack with his own knife, dragging it down the length of Axel's blade until it sinks into his thumb.

Axel bellows in pain and brings his knee up, connecting with Darnius' groin, the impact as hard as he can make it. Darnius doubles over and Axel yanks the can of insect repellant from his backpack, spraying it wildly into the other boy's eye. He howls in pain and stumbles backward, and Axel thrusts upward, the wicked blade of the karambit connecting with Darnius' eye socket. His scream is otherworldly, piercing and full of agony. Darnius falls to his knees and tries to crawl away, blood soaking the moss beneath his boots.

His eye is punctured, the ruptured globe leaking a chunky crimson mess from his eye socket. Darnius howls in pain, tearing fistfuls of grass out of the ground. Axel grabs Darnius roughly and drags him to the water's edge, fending off weak protests from the boy. A grim smile has set into Axel's face as he begins holding both of Darnius' hands behind his back, the boy's face inches away from the water, the rain hitting the back of his skull and blood creating ripples in the water where his face shields its surface from the onslaught.

_He's just another druggie who hasn't paid Mr. Yorusco_, Axel tells himself. _He needs to be humiliated. He needs to pay the price_.

He _will_ pay the price.

"Yippee ki-yay, motherfucker," Axel says monotonously, cutting off Darnius' ensuing scream by dunking him into the onyx water. The current drags at the weight of Darnius' head and shoulders, but Axel plants a knee on the backs of the boy's calves, pressing him further with a surge of much-needed strength as he thrashes and bucks for air. Keeping a grip on Darnius as he thrashes against Axel's vice grip is agonizing, but grows easier and slower as time drags on and the target finally goes slack. _Getting what he deserves_ _at last_, Axel thinks vindictively.

A cannon fires and Axel stands up, the current tugging Darnius' body away to leave the shallows stained a deep red with his lifeblood. Axel lifts his fingers to the sky and lets the rain wash the blood from under his fingernails.

In the Hunger Games, you do what is necessary, or you die. It's a simple math, really.

* * *

**EULOGIES: **

* * *

**18th: Evanna Lynn (15), District 10 Female (**_**Submitted by PopcornAndFanfiction**_**). Killed by Halley Verron via a knife to the chest. Ouch, so our second post-bloodbath death has been revealed in the form of Evanna! I will say I did enjoy the dynamic she brought to this cast, in terms of her emotions and interactions with others, especially Ruben and the running arena plotline with District Eight. I will admit that I never did my proper research when I first got her character, and as such I feel like my portrayal of her Dissociative Identity Disorder was a little skewed. I'll miss Evanna, but I feel like as the plot wears on further, I couldn't find a way for her to fit into the puzzle - RIP.**

**17th: Darnius Paisley (16), District 8 Male (**_**Submitted by Flammifera**_**). Killed by Axel Richthofen via multiple stab wounds / drowning. - Another victim of overarching plot relevance, Darnius is the eighth victim to go, and I'm a little stunned that I've already killed off a third of this amazing cast, even if it has taken a long time to get to this point. Darnius was amazing! I loved his philosophical nature, the aggression vs sunshine dynamic of his personality, and his not-really-an-alliance with Halley. This is one of the few deaths that has truly hurt writing so far, and I know it'll only get harder from here - RIP.**

* * *

**ALLIANCES: **

* * *

_**Career Pack**_**: Castiel (D1M), Crescentia (D1F), Moses (D2M), Hela (D2F), Alton (D4M), Siren (D4F), Asher (D11M)**

_**Angsty Teen Romance II**_**: Sorrel (D5M), Nyx (D5F)**

_**The Beans Are Dead**_**: Winston (D7M), Padds (D9M)**

_**Shooketh**_**: Tangaria (D11F), Mariela (D12F)**

_**Flying Solo**_**: Axel (D6M)**

_**From Ember to Flame**_**: Halley (D8F)**

_**The "Apex Predator"**_**: Ruben (D10M)**

* * *

**Author's Note: As promised, the second half of the chapter. Like I said, I doubt it'll be as back-to-back as these have been in the future, but working with more manageable chunks of the story should increase my productivity especially since I'm back to school (online), filling college applications and working a job. Yay me. Anyway, we got a muttation reveal, and some poor editing on some of the POVs; clearly a real treat for you. The "poem" if you can call it that, is something I slapped together, so it doesn't need any copyright credit added to it. Moving on...**

**Chapter Questions:**

**1 - Which fight scene was written better, Halley vs Evanna or Axel vs District Eight? Any tips to help me improve writing combat sequences?**

**2 - Thoughts on Asher's POV? I'm kind of proud of that argument segment.**

**3 - How do you feel about the two deaths this chapter?**

**It's late as all hell where I am, so I'm keeping this brief. Have a wonderful day/night you guys. :)**


	25. Chapter 25: The Fracture (P1)

_"If you're gonna die, die with your boots on_

_If you're gonna try, well stick around_

_Gonna cry, just move along_

_If you're gonna die, you're gonna die..."_

_-Iron Maiden, Die With Your Boots On_

* * *

**CHAPTER 25**

**THE FRACTURE**

**DAY THREE, PART 1**

* * *

**Crescentia Monroe **(**18**), **District 1 Tribute**

**6:42 AM**

The stillness of the misty morning has long since crept into Crescentia's bones, her joints stiff and aching as she patrols the edge of the woods. The rain must have stopped sometime in the night - when Crescentia lay half-awake with fear burrowing deeper into her gut - the absence leaving nothing more than a thin layer of dew on the downtrodden grass.

There is a quietness after a third cannon had sounded in the night. The lack of noise feels unbearable; the booming sound of the cannon or the droning sound of rain having become painfully familiar in her ears. _One-third of the competition… gone, just like that_. It's a strange feeling, albeit gratifying to realize just how much her odds are improving, even despite scoring a _1_ during her private sessions. _And Mom and Dad thought this would be difficult._ The thought makes her want to laugh, to cry or _scream_, a multitude of conflicting emotions taking the reins as she wonders how her parents have been processing this entire fiasco back home. What reactions her brain conjures are not pleasant, and Crescentia allows her thoughts to flicker between the others she had to leave behind in her momentary quest for vindication.

Of course, navigating the tense and stormy sea of arguments between each of her allies has been a ruinous challenge within itself, but the Hunger Games themselves seem to be a different beast altogether. _A much tamer beast, at least until Castiel is proven right and the seven of us self-implode_. The thought makes Crescentia shiver, though perhaps involuntarily. She stops for a moment, furtively casting a glance back at the Cornucopia. The structure gleams dully in the dim light of the morning, nearly indistinguishable from the surrounding area, like black inkblots bleeding into one another on a single page.

All six of the other Careers are asleep, with Moses having gently shaken her awake for her shift of nighttime guard duty, a task doled out by Castiel. _We've been far too cocky_, Crescentia thinks. _If we aren't careful, others are going to try to steal these supplies too… _that _I can at least agree with him on_. There are fewer and fewer instances that she sees eye-to-eye with her district partner, something that has been worrying Crescentia since her performance in the bloodbath. _And especially since yesterday_. There is less and less room for error, her mistakes feeling as though they have begun to cut off her circulation. _Only a matter of time before my mistakes cost me._

The intense arguing of the prior night had stopped once Castiel had left, replaced by a sullen silence that had filled the air upon his return. They had put together a small but equally filling dinner of venison and a few cans of vegetables that satisfied Crescentia's rumbling stomach, the hunger settling in just mere hours after she had finished eating the bread roll sponsored from her own district. With no note attached, it is easy to speculate as to who had cared enough to raise the funds for it. The meal had perhaps the only good thing to come out of the day's many toils and troubles, a solid twenty minutes of comfortable, replenishing silence. _Tension is much too high for my liking right now,_ Crescentia muses. It is not a new fact, but one that she has become increasingly aware of. _And one that scares me more than anything the Gamemakers could devise_, she decides.

Crescentia plods along the outskirts of the clearing they are situated in, scanning the woods for any signs of movement. She periodically pauses to glance back at the Cornucopia, each glimpse brief out of fear that someone is lurking at the forest edge, waiting to plunge a knife into her throat. _Or maybe I've just been on edge ever since Castiel pulled a sword on me_. It's all to easy for paranoia to pervade even the strongest minds.

After all, it is a far cry from her daily experiences.

Thus far, every waking moment in the Hunger Games has been, and while Crescentia feels satisfied by the thrills that break the cycle of monotony in her life, she feels as though she has been walking delicately on eggshells around the other Careers. _Would they even want to associate with me after Castiel ousted me last night?_ Pause. She looks back at the Cornucopia, a solitary figure emerging from the gaping entrance of the horn, stretching limber arms above their head. _Castiel had to go and tell everyone it's all just a masquerade_. _An act. What a joke this must be to him._

She's seen the bickering and brutality that previous Career Packs have displayed against each other. Against outsiders. _Seen it from our own, during the bloodbath_. She shivers at the memory of the bodies of the three twelve year olds, each broken beyond repair. Mercedes' smashed skull, and Reynolds' neck, ringed in a dark purple line. _Brutality… it's what keeps the show running_. She takes another few paces, coming around the back of the horn, and glances behind her to see which one of her allies has woken up so early. Crescentia feels relief unravel the knots in her stomach when she sees the familiar voluminous black hair belonging to her closest ally. _Siren_. She is tempted to beckon the other girl over to where she is walking, but presses forward instead, eyes peering into the gray morning shadows that criss-cross the ground where trees block the sultry advances of a rising sun.

The point of guard duty seems fruitless to her, especially with Castiel's impassioned anger towards her abilities yesterday. "_You wouldn't be able to throw that in a straight line to save your life,"_ his voice nags in her ear, Crescentia resisting the urge to hurl one of her throwing knives at a nearby tree to see just how true her aim really is. _What the hell does he want me to do, scream if I see a tribute?_ Crescentia shakes her head, as if in an attempt to rid it of the dust and grogginess of whatever little sleep she had been able to get. _The longer I stay with such a volatile group, the harder it's going to be to make sure I don't wind up with a knife sticking out of my back_, she realizes. It would be next to impossible to stay awake every hour of the day, even with Siren acting as a double to help them watch each other's backs.

For the Careers, it is always a numbers game, a thin layer of strategy acting as a guise for underhanded tactics and ruthless machine-like killing. _Castiel needs the numbers on his side, but how many would I have on mine? _She and Siren are a solid duo, Crescentia feeling close to the girl after their integration on the first day of training, or the waltz they shared once the lights had winked out of existence that night in the Capitol. _I don't have Moses or Alton_, she understands, knowing that their primary allegiance - should the alliance be dismantled - would be quite simply to each other.

Crescentia sighs deeply, wishing that the four of them had ditched Hela and Castiel and let the two of them duke it out for supremacy like a pair of junkyard dogs from Six. _We'd certainly be in a much better position_.

_But the pawns have already been moved_, she knows. It's just impossible to tell quite _where_ they have moved for sure. "_Something's brewing on the horizon," _she recalls Castiel mumbling, silently agreeing once more with her district partner. Whether or not he had acted as an unwitting catalyst in aggravating the tensions on all sides, or if it was purely intentional is unknown to her; the outwardly projected mirth and laughter having dissolved into something much more sinister. _Was it always a facade?_ She wonders, remembering how vulnerable she has seen Castiel. _Like when I mentioned Charms, whoever that is_. Secrecy and lies have become the unfortunate glue between the seven of them, and Crescentia wants nothing more than to escape before the overdue eruption arrives and incinerates the living shit out of her.

_Escape… it is the only viable option left._

Death has never been something to tick off on her bucket list, despite the stunts she and her friends may have pulled back at home. _All tame compared to impulsively volunteering for a death match_, Crescentia surmises. But the decision is one that she still stands by entirely, her beliefs just as rigid as they had been when her hand shot up and her voice rang thunderous across the town square. "_I volunteer!"_ Two words meant to forever change her life, thrusting her into the spotlight to prove her point, to absolve a grudge.

_I'm not about to waste all of that effort just because I can't read the room properly_, she thinks with a huff, absently scanning the treeline. _Even if it is as confusing as this one_. Her social skills have always been honed into a perfect edge, and right now the only thing they tell her to _get the fuck away from this disaster of an alliance._ After all, the sole thing guaranteeing that she survives the inevitably messy split is how much distance Crescentia can put between herself and the rest of them. _And that's assuming I have a head start_.

She finishes her third circuit around the Cornucopia this morning, rounding the edge of the horn to complete the routine. Once Siren comes into view, Crescentia chooses spontaneously to forfeit her duties, making a short beeline for the haphazard ring of logs around the Cornucopia where Siren has seated herself, clearly waiting to speak to Crescentia.

"Hey, girl," Siren says softly, her eyes slightly puffy around the edges. _She must have been crying last night_, Crescentia guesses. _Neither of us knew just what we were getting into_. The protection of being surrounded by trained killers does have a price or two, after all. "How did you sleep, Crescentia?" Siren asks her politely. It's a simple question, yet somehow loaded at the same time when coupled with the inquisitive look Siren gives her, the beauty from Four tilting her head slightly to the side.

"Not very well," Crescentia admits, though the words make her feel low. "Fear of what might happen kind of kept me awake." She sits down beside her ally gingerly, the log creaking underneath her, eyes flicking to the sleeping forms inside the structure to make sure that their conversation is not being overheard by any unwanted parties. "Siren, I know you feel attached to Moses and Alton," she begins, "but even with our connection to them, I think it's about time you and I-"

"Left," Siren interjects calmly, erasing the need for superfluous chatter. She lifts a hefty-looking backpack Crescentia hadn't seen from behind the backside of the log. "If you hadn't beat me to the punch, I was going to ask you the same thing," Siren explains. Crescentia nods pensively, searching within Siren's jade eyes for an unspoken affirmation. _We're leaving now. _

_Right now_.

Crescentia stands wordlessly, brushing off her pant legs, and ducks carefully inside the Cornucopia, retrieving her bag from just inside the entrance. She folds her sleeping roll in half as well, having seen Siren's latched neatly to the top of her backpack. Crescentia freezes when she hears incoherent mumbling, but it's just the Wolfchild rolling over in his sleep. She takes a moment to get one last glance at the faces of her allies, all peaceful and serene when sleeping, a feat she knows none could accomplish while awake. _For what it's worth, I'll miss them_, Creacentia thinks as she rolls the mat up underneath one arm and straps it to the top of her backpack.

"Ready?" asks Siren, voice a near-inaudible whisper from outside. Crescentia nods and steps out onto the dewy grass, morning mist chilling her skin, and scans the sodden frontier ahead with a new intent. She might miss the strange company of her allies, but the risk of leaving heavily outweighs the reward of staying trapped in a cage with five dangerous beasts.

Crescentia Monroe won't _ever_ look back.

* * *

**Winston Thorn **(**18**), **District 7 Tribute**

**7:01 AM**

Pain flares up in his leg as he walks, like subcutaneous needles pricking him in the calf as he follows Padds closely behind. Despite the application of a bandage to the wound Hela had inflicted upon him - an event he does not remember being conscious for - the distinct lack of proper medical care means that Winston is in for a long next couple of days. They have kept checking the wound for infection, cleaning it with filtered water but being forced to reuse the same cloth bandages. It's almost a miracle when it begins to scab over, for at least there is now a barrier against potential infectants.

Winston struggles to match Padds' pace, but after the events of yesterday morning, he is more than happy to stick by his ally's side. _Even though we ditched the girls,_ Winston thinks mournfully, _he has done a great job at helping me keep myself alive_. Winston is certainly indebted to his ally, especially when faced with the two close calls they had encountered thus far. The arena today seems quiet, and Winston finds himself hoping for a respite. _Three cannons yesterday is quite a lot_, he decides solemnly. But a respite means restlessness from their audiences. _And restlessness means Gamemaker interference_. Despite how simple the forest may seem - reminding him, in fact, of the woods he had to chase his sister through the morning of the Reapings - Winston understands that it is more than likely that the Gamemakers have something in store for their tributes. _And I can only wonder what. I mean, Bloom's brother was decapitated by some kind of grizzly bear_. Except it wasn't a grizzly bear; instead standing taller and stronger, with rows of sharp canines and blank, soulless eyes that seemed to bore into the screen, Bloom burying her face in Winston's chest as the creature's muzzle was bloodied and her brother's cannon sounded.

No, the thought of muttations scares him more than anything. There is a curious _whoosh_ing noise from up ahead, and Padds freezes, producing the only knife they have secured between them and pointing it in the direction of the noise. Winston clutches his stick, a hefty branch they had broken off a tree so that he would have the means to defend himself if the occasion arose, the tip poorly whittled into a blunt point. _It's a bird_, Winston thinks darkly. _They've sent the muttations after us at last, haven't they_?

They advance slowly toward the noise - as it is better than turning their back to it - both armed and ready to fight for their lives. But it is neither a muttation nor a tribute; instead two canisters sitting side-by-side, forest-green and purplish-gray, their silver parachutes deflated on the ground behind them. Winston's face breaks out in relief, his first smile in the past two days. _We've been sent something_. He and Padds cautiously approach the canisters, but Winston's normally patient attitude is lost to curiosity, with his fingers deftly unlatching the clasp to reveal what potential goods were sent inside.

The smell of fresh bread hits his nose, and Winston is transported instantly back to his mother's bakery, her helping a younger Winston learn to knead dough with his tiny hands, one ball of dough left plain and the other sprinkled with cocoa powder, both marbled together to look like the rings on the inside of a felled tree. The sight of the bread is enough to hit Winston like a sucker punch to the gut, and though he remains stoic, he can feel tears well up in the corners of his eyes. _This is the hardest thing I'll ever have to do_.

Padds stands beside him, his canister also containing a single loaf of bread. For the district that produces grain, Winston never expected them to have a nondescript loaf of bread; a simple boule-shaped loaf with a few lines scored on the top to resemble stalks of wheat. Winston's mouth waters at the combined scent of the bread, their dwindling bag of dried fruit having been consumed the previous night.

_I'm hungry_, Winston thinks, the smell making his stomach growl with a nauseatic twinge. It's odd to think about the true implications that Winston has never felt as hungry as he does right now, tearing a chunk off of his own loaf, the marbled colors holding a slight hint of cocoa sweetness. Winston closes his eyes and inhales deeply, feeling comforted by the taste and aroma.

It reminds him of home, plain and simple. The smell of baking bread lingering even through clouds of sawdust in the air, the smell of woodsmoke and the fragrance of lilies both heady and strong, like the bouquet of white flowers he hands to Bloom, the gesture rewarded with a soft kiss from his broken girlfriend. _What's left of home once I am gone?_ He wonders quietly, the bread suddenly losing its appeal. The mental picture of his family sitting quietly around a table, holding hands in prayer; his girlfriend Bloom sobbing uncontrollably in a dark room, or the thought of returning home just to pass by the Ridgewood restaurant with its doors closed out of dejection all make Winston feel very, _very_ tired.

And very alone, as well.

Winston brushes his long brown hair out of his eyes, the wavy length tickling the back of his neck. It's still damp from last night - it seems like 'dry' is a curse word for these Gamemakers - and tries to ignore the depressing thoughts that have started to grip his mind in two hands, never quite letting him go. _If I don't make it back, what will happen to everyone I care about?_

He clutches the blunt-headed spear, the crude weapon no longer feeling comforting in his hands, as if his present reality has been distorted with the shattered dreams of his future, of a quiet life raising a child with Bloom… he leans on the stick for a moment, gasping for the air Winston didn't know he needed. "Are you alright?" Padds asks alarmedly, reaching out to place a hand on Winston's shoulder. "Winston, are you…?" Padds glances down at his ally's leg, the bandage having been stained a thick crimson color since both awoke, but Winston shakes his head.

"I'm fine, Padds," he gasps. "Not the leg. Let's… lets keep moving," Winston says with a nod, gesturing to the general direction they have been following the last day, winding alongside the river as carefully as possible. _One and done_, Winston thinks tiredly as he recalls their altercation yesterday morning with the boy from Ten. _If he catches us again, he'll give us hell_. Something in the boy's eyes felt like a warning shot, as if their survival is a game of cat and mice for him, watching everyone else scurry about his paws with malevolent eyes.

"Let's be careful then," Padds says genially, making Winston bite back a scornful response. _Padds? Being careful?_ The mere thought makes him want to laugh, the kind of hysterical laughter that comes with a life-or-death situation such as this one. Coming around the bend of the river, Winston can see the metallic glint of the Cornucopia. He looks up at the sky nervously, trying to avoid staring at the death trap in front of them. _Why are we here?_ Winston wants to ask as Padds continues forward, unfazed. _Shouldn't we turn back?_

The duo clears the treeline with relative ease, though tension laces the air thickly with every step around the outer edge of the field surrounding the Cornucopia. _What if they see us? We should have taken the long way_, Winston thinks, knowing that he should have voiced his objection against Padds' second reckless idea. _Only a matter of time before he makes us take the plunge_, Winston thinks, the unshakeable sort of disconsolate attitude returning to his head.

Padds steps quietly around the outer few podiums, his movements cautious as if the land-mines could still blow him into smithereens. Winston follows suit; not out of superstition, but rather the observation that the less noise and movement he makes, the better their chances of crossing the field in the low-level morning light will be. _Don't do anything stupid,_ his mother had told him, arms wrapped tightly around her son. _You're a smart boy. You'll come back._ Winston shakes his head, freezing for a moment when he thinks he sees movement near the mouth of the Cornucopia. His fingers close around the red poker chip in his pocket; a gift that his sister gives him in the dismal atmosphere of the Justice Building. Everything centers on luck, he comes to realize. Luck that Padds came to rescue him. Luck that Ruben chose not to chase after them. Luck that they had been sent a sponsor gift of bread right when things had begun to take a turn for the worse.

_We're just gambling our odds, Padds and I. Reckless or not, that's all we can do, isn't it?_

Winston sees another metallic glint from the field and narrows his eyes curiously, irises flicking back and forth between the lion's den and the object on the ground. "If it's a weapon… one of _their_ weapons, then we'll double our odds," he mumbles to Padds. _Perhaps we are both rolling the dice_. Winston changes directions, his ally falling carefully into step behind them. Winston kneels next to the object, half submerged in the thick layer of mud that covers the ground. His fingers close around a dull copper tine, and Winston's heart sinks low into his chest. _It's Arley's crown,_ he realizes, feeling a deep ache inside him at the thought of her tortured screams ringing between the trees.

"Winston, there are two of them out already," Padds warns urgently. "They might not see us _now_, but there bound to sooner or later."

Winston solemnly unearths the crown, brushing the slathered mud off of its muted surface. "Padds," he says gently. "You're going to want to see this." His ally stops looking over his shoulder at the Cornucopia, and Winston can hear the absence of his breathing, Padds being dumbfounded by the discovery. Winston gazes at their grisly prize, which Hela must have been knocked off Arley's head with the toss of her net. _And none of them bothered to pick it up_, Winston thinks. He wordlessly hands the crown to Padds.

"For safekeeping," Padds says for him, breathy words echoing Winston's own thoughts. After all, he _is_ the one with the backpack. Padds stands for a moment, the crown held mournfully between two hands, before he unzips his backpack and nestles the crown inside.

There is a sharp murmur from across the field that has the hairs on Winston's arms raising. _Voices_. His eyes widen urgently and the flat of his palm connects with Padds' shoulder. "_Let's go!"_ he mouths silently, nodding to the treeline in the nearby distance, the late-morning mist providing just enough obscurity to be their salvation from any predators stalking the woods.

They're stopped by the indistinct silhouettes of two of the Career girls, the low gray mist of morning hanging between the four of them. "Siren, we've got a problem," the girl from District One says, the shape of a knife materializing in her hands. Winston gulps, clutching his makeshift spear and aiming it toward their figures. Siren has a spear too, a weapon he notices when she shifts to the side, the black outline of the weapon looking twice as deadly as his own.

They're caught halfway between the Cornucopia and the treeline, with two trained fighters ready to attack them at a ranged distance. Siren darts forward with her spear, lunging left for Winston's exposed flank, and he dodges, the maneuver clumsy but quick enough to save him from being gored. The lithe girl from District Four slides across the wet grass, throwing herself at behind Winston, at what he can only assume is Padds.

_Fuck, fuck, FUCK!_ He uses his crude weapon to the best of his ability, lifting the wood above his head and slamming it down onto the back of Siren's calf as if it were an axe, the girl hurtling forward and colliding with the ground at full speed. _Padds should be okay handling her while she's down_, Winston thinks triumphantly, his spirits instantly sucked out of him once he turns around, jerking his head in the direction of their other adversary. The second Career has circled him, arm extended to the side, the imperceptible glint of her throwing knife at the ready.

All of Winston's poker chips are on the table.

She snaps her arm across her chest, sending the knife flying through the air. This time, he isn't quick enough.

Pain. Searing and white hot, it flares in his neck, and he drops the spear, spots forming at the edges of his vision as Winston gingerly lifts a hand to the hilt of the knife, buried where his neck joins his clavicle.

Winston sinks to his knees, lifting his eyes to watch a second airborne knife coming straight for him.

Time and time again, he loses.

* * *

**Siren Thalassa **(**17**), **District 4 Tribute**

**8:07 AM**

She sees the first knife out of the corner of her eye, Crescentia's weapon flung at a _breathing_ target, and she flinches when it makes contact with Winston. The skirmish is off-puttingly silent, the slickness of mud underneath boots and the grunts of exertion being Siren's only physical reminder that she's locked in another fight, burning with adrenaline and a fever of fear toward what she has become.

The back of her calf burns with a residual ache from where the Seven boy, Winston, hit her with his stick, the hefty piece of wood sure to leave a score of deep purple bruises on her skin. She grimaces, testing her leg gently on the ground as she thrusts her spear toward Padds, the movement intended solely to drive him back rather than to end his life. "_I don't think I'm ready to put another kid in a coffin,"_ she thinks, the words resounding in her head with a gradual crescendo until they are the only thing she can hear; her combat becoming sloppier and more forced with each fatigued movement.

The erupting sound of a cannon firing in the sky almost makes Siren stumble over her own feet. It clearly registers with her that the altercation is bound to result in one side winning. However, the shock of hearing cannonfire in the air - signalling the rising death toll - has never ceased to make her feel disgusted, as if something minute is crawling across her skin. _It's totally unreal_, she believes, wholeheartedly yearning for the cliffside near the sea, for the gaudy lights of the run-down and ramshackle buildings clustered by the marina. For the boats with their imposing white sails and the smell of brine on the wind.

_Now all I can smell is death_.

Padds gasps in front of her as his ally crumples to the ground, body lax and lifeless, Crescentia standing above the fresh corpse with a look of horror and determination crossing her soft features. Siren turns her back on Crescentia, remorse for a death she had nothing to do with flooding her veins. Unable to watch Crescentia retrieve her knives, as thoughts of the deer are all that fill her head; of sinew, muscle and bone that would look all too familiar.

She gags and fakes a stumble, lunging with the spear. She plants it in the ground between Padds' feet, and he shouts, the sound crisp and clear against the oppressive silence of the morning. _It's a conundrum_, Siren thinks pessimistically. _I don't want to be the one who dies, but I don't think I can find it in myself to be responsible for someone else's cannon going off_.

Nothing, in truth, could have prepared her for the ecstatic highs and manic lows she has felt by simply existing among the greater scheme of things, life tethered impossibly to the concept of _good performance_ on what is essentially a _fucking_ game show. Siren's danced with Crescentia, she's strangled a suicidal boy a year younger than her, butchered a deer and had sex _in the arena_… life has been turned upside down this past week, slathered in a sweet golden honey that only attacts vile little flies.

Siren swings her spear half-heartedly at Padds, catching the edge of his jacket and causing the material to tear. He casts a fearful look over her shoulder as Crescentia appears, turning tail and running into the woods without a second glance thrown behind him. "He got away," Crescentia surmises dryly. Siren nods, leaning to rest her body weight on her spear as she massages her bruised calf. Siren adjusts the weight of her backpack, the sleeping roll digging into her neck with each step toward the treeline. "Do we follow him?" Siren's ally asks curiosly, putting away the throwing knives that she has already cleaned off, looking pristine. _But you can't erase blood_, she thinks darkly, her hands tingling with the thought.

"Let the others deal with him," Siren suggests. "We need to get out of here before anyone else wakes up."

"Hm?" asks a voice coldly from behind her. Siren freezes as she feels the icy steel tip of a sword against the back of her neck. "Shouldn't have sounded the cannons then," the voice intones, with Castiel's cold smugness filling the devoid words.

"Leave her alone," Crescentia snarls, leveling a knife at Castiel's head.

"Oho!" Castiel snorts, the usual mirth making a twisted return to his vocal ensemble. "Looks like you've finally stepped up to the plate, _Crescentia_," he says bitingly, nudging Winston's corpse disrespectfully with his boot.

Siren can hear the sound of footsteps plodding through the mud, and her heart sinke, knowing exactly who they belong to. _Alton and Moses_. "Let us be on our way," Siren says as civilly as possible, raising her chin defiantly and cutting off any potential retort from her ally. "After last night, it's clear there isn't a place for us here anymore," she explains, voice catching hoarsely in her throat. _But there is a place. Alton's arms. Moses' arms._ Siren is almost glad that Castiel has approached her from behind; the angle means she doesn't have to look her onetime lovers in the face.

_Or Crescentia's side_. Whatever promises she had made Alton on the train - while the chrome doors slid open to reveal their first taste of Capitolite revelry - _have_ to be pushed out of her mind. Crescentia was her first true ally; maybe her first true _friend_, if the word can be properly expressed in a fight scrambling for promises survival over the certainty of death. Her own personal feelings cannot stand in the way of the logical choice. _Alton and Moses would ditch me if it meant keeping each other alive for another minute or two_, she thinks, brain spinning a mile a minute. It's a cold hard truth; one that Siren does not like telling herself, but one she cannot dispel either.

_Things are just going to be the way they are_, she thinks calmly. _Let them roll off your back, like the waves_. At the end of the day, the only thing that truly matters anymore is that Siren is alive and breathing.

_We've been caught, but that doesn't mean we're dead._

_Not just yet_, she thinks vigorously. From the corner of her eye, Siren can see Moses and Alton advancing on the two of them; Moses carrying his battleaxe and Alton with his morningstar, all three boys looking disheveled from being woken up to the blast of a cannon. "Why would you run away from us?" Moses queries, sounding hurt and betrayed. Too much passes between them unspoken, but perhaps it is better that way, better than reigniting the feelings Siren has decided to suppress. _Live with your choices._

Thankfully, Crescentia answers on cue. "Because we didn't have any other choice, not after Castiel exploded last night," she says bluntly, the words crashing in the air like jarring whitecaps on a rocky shore.

"Don't you think it's a little early to be running?" Castiel sneers at his district partner, his sudden contempt making Siren feel pissed off. _Like she did anything to earn his wrath_. She feels the point of his blade press into her neck, adding another slight degree of pressure; and Siren gulps inaudibly, giving Crescentia a fearful look. _If last night was bad, we're wading through shit this morning_, she decides.

"We're supposed to stick together," Alton says grimly, his mouth set into a hard line. "Do you not remember your promise to me?" he asks Siren, guilt blossoming in her chest. _We were supposed to get away._

_We can't just die like this_, she decides. "If you want to leave so badly," Castiel grins, and Siren feels pressure on her back as his hand grips the fabric of her backpack. "You can leave. But you aren't taking _our_ supplies with you," he murmurs, gentle tone masking a bite of steel. "Leave them, and we'll give you an hour head start before we hunt you down," Castiel says, presenting an ultimatum to the two girls. "Unless you'd prefer a sword through the back of your skull," he whispers in her ear, the words dripping with venom.

Moses shifts uncomfortably behind Crescentia at the statement, but does not relinquish his grip on the battle axe. _Lines have been drawn… and I don't think the two of them will be joining us_. It breaks Siren's heart, in all truth and honesty, but getting attached in the Hunger Games is a clear and simple way to get yourself killed.

_Perhaps it's for the best_. Her only lingering wish is that she could have helped Moses and Alton escape the death match they're walking into. _But they know what they signed up for. Me and Crescentia… we didn't_.

Hell, Siren _didn't_ sign up for this. She _didn't_ volunteer, _didn't_ train and _didn't_ expect to find allies, let alone ones she would care for. But if Siren is to bite the bullet, she's going to die _fighting_.

Siren lunges forward, boots digging into the ground as she pivots, the butt of her spear slamming into Castiel's abdomen before he has a chance to thrust his sword through the back of her skull. He shouts in surprise and guttural rage, springing up from the ground with streaks of mud running down the side of his jacket where he fell onto the marshy ground.

Siren hears a swooshing noise in the air and feels hands on the small of her back, pushing her forward, and she crashes unceremoniously to her knees into the mud. Suddenly Crescentia is beside her, Moses' axe having narrowly missed her head. The mud is cold on her knees, and clinging, similar to how her ally clings to her arm, dragging her away from the fight. Moses has a look of steely determination on his face as he lifts the axe again, its head strong and sharp. Crescentia lifts her knife as Castiel rounds on the two of them, panting hard, but stops herself. Siren twists to look at them, spear clutched in hand.

Emerging from the gloomy mist is the variable that Siren hadn't _remotely_ considered this morning, especially not after Castiel had come calling for their necks to be axed and delivered on a silver platter to his dinner table. It's Hela and Asher, wearing massive packs on their backs, and absolutely _armed to the teeth_. Hela clutches her spear, two more strapped on her back with a small assortment of knives fitting snugly into a bandolier on her chest; and Asher has both claws out, a sword strapped across his back and a knife sheathed to his backpack.

"We're _fucked_!" Siren yelps without thinking, speaking her mind aloud for all to hear. _Everything's going downhill so damn fast_. Like a ship breaking upon the shore, Siren is unable to stop the splintering.

_A fracture_.

"_They're_ fucked," Crescentia retorts, shoving Siren into the direction of the sodden frontier ahead, all hell breaking out loose behind them with shouting and the clangor of steel and skin. Siren casts one last terrified glance at the skirmish before turning away forever, the two of them taking the plunge into the morning mist permeating the eerily quiet woods. She feels gratefulness blossom in her chest for Crescentia's actions, knowing that even with any potential selfish motivations, without her interference Siren would be the next cannon to have fired.

Taking Reynolds' life is something that has weighed heavy on Siren's conscience ever since the bloodbath, but Crescentia seems almost liberated once her knives sink into Winston's throat. _As if something is unlocking inside of her_, Siren wonders curiously, her eyes trained on the back of Crescentia's head as the blonde girl pushes through the undergrowth, a few dead stalks of thistle and brush crackling in the assault.

_We've taken the plunge into freedom, and out of the cage_, Siren thinks, feeling as if she can relax once they put enough distance between them all. _Maybe there's a lake or a river somewhere nearby, _she ponders.

But for now, Siren will listen for the sound of cannons with a great heaviness in her heart.

* * *

**EULOGIES: **

* * *

**16th: Winston Thorn (18), District 7 Male (**_**Submitted by districtfours**_**). Killed by Crescentia Monroe via a sequence of knives thrown into the neck. I hate to admit that I was never truly as invested in Winston as I could have been. My cast had a lot of genuinely nice characters, and while that within itself isn't a bad thing, Winston found himself among the ranks of the expendable; never truly fitting into any overarching plots and plans. Despite how he may have felt, I don't think he ever really had a killer instinct either, so here he lies, a little earlier than I had planned way back in September - RIP.**

* * *

**ALLIANCES: **

* * *

_**The Fracture**_**: Castiel (D1M), Moses (D2M), Hela (D2F), Alton (D4M), Asher (D11M)**

_**Parley in Pas De Deux**_**: Crescentia (D1F), Siren (D4F)**

_**Angsty Teen Romance II**_**: Sorrel (D5M), Nyx (D5F)**

_**Shooketh**_**: Tangaria (D11F), Mariela (D12F)**

_**Flying Solo**_**: Axel (D6M)**

_**From Ember to Flame**_**: Halley (D8F)**

_**Ya Blew It, Bud!**_**: Padds (D9M)**

_**The "Apex Predator"**_**: Ruben (D10M)**

* * *

**Author's Note****: We've broken 200k! I think smaller chunks works better for me - potentially - although as the workload for school increases, I fear a recession back into old habits struggling to juggle all of my obligations, hence… this chapter being about a week later than I had originally intended. There are no chapter questions for this chapter.**

**Have a great day/night you all!**


	26. Chapter 26: The Fracture (P2)

_"If you're gonna die, die with your boots on_

_If you're gonna try, well stick around_

_Gonna cry, just move along_

_If you're gonna die, you're gonna die..."_

_-Iron Maiden, Die With Your Boots On_

* * *

**CHAPTER 26**

**THE FRACTURE**

**DAY THREE, PART 2**

* * *

**Castiel Bomber **(**18**), **District 1 Tribute**

**8:24 AM**

The deep-rooted anger that Castiel has begun to feel ever since yesterday's tumultuous events climaxes and churns with the flight of his district partner, betraying his trust yet again in the face of imminent danger. _Not like I would have expected her to fight with us anyway_, he thinks furiously as Asher and Hela approach from the Cornucopia armed to the teeth. _Two more blows to my crumbling dignity. Great job, Bomber. Really fulfilled your life's purpose_.

Not only has the Career Pack run itself to the ground right before his very eyes, but Crescentia had done Castiel a _massive_ disservice by taking the only life left in the arena that Castiel had claimed as his to take. _Seven was mine, and now Seven is gone_. He had nudged the body with his boot, keeping his emotions controlled; controlled as they have always been, save for the spontaneous combustion of suppressed emotion last night, like supernovas exploding thick and thunderous off of his tongue.

_All I wanted to do was kick the shit out of his corpse_, Castiel thinks murderously, vengeance the only thought on his mind. _After what District Seven did to Charming..._ Castiel tries to ignore the horrific image of his boyfriend's back riddled with arrows, his eyes glazed, his mouth red and crusted with blood. It's the image burned behind his eyelids, of what Seven did to his _Charms_, that keeps him up at night. _That makes me hollow_. Grief floods his veins and Castiel needs to close his eyes for a moment, sucking in a breath of dewy morning air. _Don't think about him right now_. Part of him is glad that his district partner finally stepped up to the plate, but stealing Castiel's long-awaited revenge isn't something that sits well within the dark stone-cold cell in the bottom of his heart. _We'll take care of the viper and the wolf for now._

_And I'll deal with the traitors later_.

The thought fills him with a white-hot rage that is only exacerbated by the prowling of his nemeses, like two circling predators looking for an easy meal. _They think we're prey_. Castiel smirks, though it looks more like a grimace. "Moses," he instructs through gritted teeth, "take care of Foster." The brawny boy from District Two nods his head, knowing that now is the worst time to argue with whatever semblance of leadership hasn't been stripped from Castiel's hide over the last twenty-four _miserable_ hours.

_Asher is untrained, and the range of Moses' axe might match that of those goddamn claws of his. Not so unreasonable now, huh Finch?_

"Alton, help as needed. If you have to jog back to the Cornucopia, get something _conventional_, like a sword," Castiel commands. _The morningstar isn't going to cut it against trained opponents_, Castiel thinks. "I'm going for Hela herself," Castiel murmurs as his rival stops short, just a small grassy stretch away. _A spear's throw_.

Suddenly, Castiel wishes that the Cornucopia had supplied them with shields; his arm feels naked without some form of protection, despite hours of training to increase his prowess in both styles of dueling. The center of his abdomen still aches from where Siren slammed the butt end of her spear into his stomach. Every ache and pain from the last day seems to arise and come alive as Hela tilts her head slowly, spear clutched in her hands. _Deadly_. "_We're fucked!"_ Siren's voice screams in his ear, shrill and full of panic. "_They're fucked!"_ his district partner retorts, the two of them disappearing from his peripheral vision.

Fucked they might be, but Castiel _refuses_ to go down without a fight. _Without taking Hela out with me, the bitch_. The torment suffered over the last week has been almost unbearable. _And like I said, I'm tired of everyone making me out into some kind of villain. It's obvious who the villains are, if that even matters_. "Pissing your pants, Castiel?" Asher taunts, brandishing his claws. _Those things took down a deer_, Castiel remembers, heart thumping loudly in his chest. _Shouldn't be anything the three of us can't handle_.

"Tuck your tail behind your legs and run for the woods, Wolfchild," Alton sneers. "Leave the fighting for the professionals. This isn't some street scrap."

"You _bastard_!" Asher growls, baring his canines. _Like a feral animal_, Castiel thinks derisively. Alton steps forward, clutching his morningstar, and charges Asher, lifting the weapon over his head to swing it at the other boy, the motion backed with the full power of Alton's muscles and the weight of the spiked mace. Asher lifts both sets of claws, creating a mesh with them, and blocks the attack, grunting hard. Inertia causes him to take a few unsteady steps backward, and the two are locked in for a moment before Asher jumps backward, swiping a bladed glove at Alton's face. The attack catches Castiel's ally by surprise, the boy screaming in pain as the middle claw cuts through the bridge of his nose.

Before anyone can say a word, Moses is hurtling across the wet grass at full speed, tackling the Wolfchild and sending the redheaded boy careening into the ground. "Get a _blade_, Kersey!" Castiel shouts, not caring _how_ bossy the words sound as they leave his lips. The boy from Four nods sharply, thick gouts of blood spurting from the cloven bridge of his nose. The whistling of a knife catches his attention, and Castiel shouts in surprise as one of Hela's knives grazes the tip of his ear. _The queen bitch herself_, he thinks scathingly. "Challenging me at last, Mistlyre?" he asks, lunging for Hela. Castiel swings the sword in a glittering arc above his head, the silver steel catching the first rays of dawn that crest the treetops and permeate the gray morning mist.

_And misses_. He stumbles, regaining his balance and whirling around to catch Hela's spear with the edge of his blade, foot pivoting in the marshy ground. _Get rid of her, Castiel!_ Hela grins cruelly, her eyes holding a dark glimmer as she feints left with the spear and smashes her balled fist into his temple, knuckles connecting with his skull. Stars dance before Castiel's vision, and his head swims as he grips the sword with both hands, slashing blindly at Hela's torso. His adversary ducks and leans leftward toward the ground, simultaneously retrieving her knife and thrusting her spear at the back of his leg. The jagged metal tip grazes Castiel's upper calf, and he bellows in pain, bringing the pommel of his sword _hard_ down on Hela's exposed back.

She lurches to the side, her movements erratic as she twists back to face him, barely able to parry his sword stroke with the shaft of her spear, the blade creating a nick in the wood. Hela's eyes are blazing with the flames of lost dignity, her lips pressed in a grim line. His ears are met with the clangor of steel, and he spares a quick glance at Moses and Asher, the former's axe lodged in between the interlocked claws of the latter. _Tough shit_, Castiel surmises, jabbing his sword at Hela. She sidesteps the move and brings her spear down with enough force to send his weapon flying into the sodden ground. They stare at each other for a fleeting heartbeat before Castiel bolts for his sword, scrambling like an animal across the mud.

Just as Castiel wraps his hand around the hilt of his sword, a painful warmth blossoms in his shoulder, his skin prickling beneath his jacket. _What the… the fuck?_ Castiel spins around to see Hela a few yards from him still, a knife missing from her bandolier. Only then does the pain and anguish fully register with Castiel, who shouts in agony, his shattered voice ringing in between the trees as he wrenches the knife from the back of his shoulder, hurling the stained blade back at it's owner.

Hela flinches as the knife connects, the blade tearing through one layer of fabric and exiting through another, the only contact made with her jacket. Castiel curses and pushes himself desperately to his feet as Hela strides forward, raising her spear to attack him, the barbed end like the stinger of a scorpion as it hangs suspended in deadly balance.

"Last words, you golden-haired fuck-up?" Hela snarls, her emerald eyes narrowed and her raven-dark hair hanging in sweaty strands around her face.

_Eat shit, Mistlyre_, he wants to say. But a blur of teal blue and bulging olive muscles on his left makes Castiel grin instead. "Enjoy hell for me," he says sarcastically, Hela's eyes transforming from confused to wide with shock as the words register with her. Alton's sword sinks into her skin, the blade pushing into Hela's abdomen. Alton's face is twisted in rage, beads of sweat rolling down his face, but any tension held between his brows disappears the second that Hela's spear enters his ribs, the metal creating a sickening crunch as it makes impact with bone.

Alton's sword slips out of Hela's abdomen as he falls to his knees, a mere two inches of his blade coated in red. _She hasn't bled enough yet for it to be justice,_ Castiel thinks angrily, charging Hela once more as he watches one of his pawns fall.

It doesn't matter. He's already too late.

* * *

**Hela Mistlyre **(**18**), **District 2 Tribute**

**8:30 AM**

The steel makes a sharp ringing noise as it connects once again with her sparring partner's sword, the noises parallel to the fighting going on around the Cornucopia, though Hela's own mind wavers between a dreamlike fantasy of the past and her own lethal realities. Hela can smell the sweat dripping down Castiel's face, down Flarian's brow, each simultaneously beginning to tire with Hela's deadly assault.

_All too easy_, she reminds herself as she guides the spear furiously toward Castiel, the golden-haired boy barely able to duck out of the way as she strikes the sword from his grip. _Just like training. The stakes are different, the strokes are the same_. In the arena, Hela is well and truly out of her element, with no trainers singing their praise at stifled actions each morning, and no lunchtime meals locked alone in her chambers. _It's nothing like I would have ever imagined_, Hela thinks, battering any lingering fears away from herself. She fumbles for a second with a strap of the bandolier, her dexterous fingers selecting a perfectly balanced knife.

One second, the blade is between her fingers, and the next it is sailing at a target, another blue plastic dummy standing motionless on the far side of a training gymnasium. The blade is sinking into the back of Castiel's shoulder, a crimson stain blossoming from the wound. Hela grins, laughing high and haughty again. _He deserves the mockery. What a fool_, Hela thinks, grimacing in fury and disgust at how much she has grown to hate the boy in front of her. "_Might as well have been doing something more productive with your sad little life…" _Castiel begins, his words from last night's explosive argument hitting too close to home, like a wound stripping her flesh to the bone, a serrated knife twisting into her chest. _Something more productive than wasting it training for an event I'm going to lose_, Hela finishes, filling in the blanks

_Like this asshole knows anything about my life. Anything about hardship._ Hela flinches as his knife misses her body entirely, but returns her attention to leering at a captive prey, debating how humiliating it would be for Castiel to be caught under the weight of her net too, rendered helpless to whichever methods Hela chooses to utilize to send Castiel home in the wooden box he so _thoroughly _deserves.

_And I want to be the one to put him there_. She strides forward, a primal fury fueling her movements, and hoists the spear until it is level with his throat. "Last words, you golden-haired fuck-up?" Hela snarls, feeling a wild edge creep into her voice. _What a mess we must look_, she thinks, the thought of the fight being filmed almost making her laugh. _Entertainment for the masses, somehow_. She wonders briefly if her sister Lokir finds this entertaining, or if her drunken deadbeat of a father has even cared to turn on the television screen in his lavish home in the Victor's Village, a place Hela has yearned to see for years. _Undeserving. Worthless._

_I'll show him. Killing the self-proclaimed leader of the Careers is a good place to start._

"Enjoy hell for me," Castiel says sarcastically, catching her completely off guard. In a moment, she is wrenched once more from the top of the world and subjugated with the piercing sensation of a blade impaling her skin. _Dirty motherfucker,_ Hela groans, swiveling her upper body to face her attacker. _Alton_. The target is the same; just another home for her spear, and this time, Hela Mistlyre makes her mark, the weapon sinking deep into his sternum. _Bullseye_.

There is a sickening crunch, and Castiel gasps, pushing himself off the sodden ground. The pain that coalesces like burning magma in her side is nothing compared to the triumph that floods her veins as the tip of her spear penetrates through Alton's ribs, the weapon sinking deep into his unprotected chest. Hela twists it out cruelly as Alton sinks to his knees, croaking, and doesn't flinch as a spray of warm blood douses her torn jacket. It takes just a single second before the tears come, cascading down Alton's cheeks, bitten-off screams dying in his throat as he collapses, blood pumping through his fingers as if the rivers inside him are running dry.

Hela licks her chapped lips and surveys her victory, time seeming to slow down for a millisecond as she revels in the death she has dealt, a crushing blow that smites her first enemy as if he were nothing more than the carcass of a cow, hung in the Academy's larder with its fate resting in the blades of a practicing cadet. _Meat and flesh,_ Hela thinks darkly, brushing the fear out of the shaded corners of her mind. _That's all Alton ever was_. It isn't hard to depersonalize him in her mind once she's skewered him; just another boy lost to the fatal attractions of glory and fame. _Meat and flesh_. "_And did Hela whittle down the competition at all?" _Castiel's voice creeps into her ear, condescending and cruel. _Why, yes, Castiel. I believe I've eliminated one of your knights_, she muses sardonically. _I do believe it's time for a checkmate_.

There is a ear-splitting wail from behind Hela and Castiel, both teens turning to locate its source. Moses slams his fist into Asher's nose, the Wolfchild bleeding and battered from recent assault. Moses is gasping for air, his face contorted with a mixture of rage and distress. The act of killing feels wildly different, too, than Hela imagined; a foul sort of pleasure that tastes like acrid red wine upon her tongue. Moses is bleeding from thick red lines across his arm, Asher's claws having found some kind of purchase on his skin.

"_Alton!_" Moses shouts, the words ringing like the aftershot of a bullet across the clearing. "Alton, _no!_" Moses drops his battle-axe at the boy's side and clutches his soaked hands, lacing his dark fingers with Alton's crimson ones. Hela levels her spear with Moses' back, and almost sends it puncturing through his shoulder blades, a solitary thought keeping her arm held steady and motionless. _This is love_, Hela thinks, the emotion raw and sticking into the back of her throat. _Not like what Asher and I feel… it's love, of some sort_.

The one and only thing Hela has ever craved, deep down in the confined dungeons of her steel-gray soul. _And the one thing I can't take away from Finch_, she thinks sadly. There is a small ounce of allegiance left inside her, owed to her district partner and his endless insecurities and boundless strength. Hela holds all the power; to end his life or spare it; and in the end, it is the one emotion she isn't qualified to express that stays her hand.

_Just this once. For him_, she thinks pitifully, watching Moses' broad shoulder shake. Instead, she turns her attention to Castiel, the boy looking small and utterly shocked, his muscular shoulders curled slightly inward. "Remind you of _Charms?_" Hela asks, her words barbed and cruel. _Castiel isn't deserving of the same grace_. She had put the pieces together last night; his grudge against Seven and the word whispered in his sleep, spoken softly and often enough to be a _name_.

A dead name, but one that holds immeasurable weight in Castiel's head, apparently.

He snaps immediately, his eyes furious and filled with tears of rage. "How _dare_ you speak his name, you bitch!" Castiel charges her yet again, his movements clumsy, and Hela tiredly unsheaths a knife from her bandolier as he strikes, sword aimed at her head. Instead, Hela clamps her hand around his wrist, jerking out of the way to dodge the blade. Her knife flashes up toward his outstretched arm, cutting a gouge in the palm of his hand.

Castiel howls, saliva flying everywhere as his face reddens. _Calf. Shoulder. Palm._ Enough calculating blows to leave Castiel with a permanent reminder of his failures; maybe an infection to compliment them if Hela is lucky. "Wolf Boy!" She shouts over Castiel as he struggles against her grip, sword slack in his injured hand. "We're leaving."

Moses looks up as she says this, his eyes puffy and wet. "_Hela_," Asher hisses, pointing his claws at Moses. "We can kill them right now and make light work of it," he says urgently, almost a plea to off his enemies. But Asher doesn't understand the rules as well as Hela herself does. _Enough show for today. We can lay low and hopefully get a few sponsors before we encounter these two again_. Even for her, there has been enough blood drawn for the masses.

Hunter and prey; a simple enough law of nature. She shakes her head quietly and turns her back on Moses' anguished face, on Alton's dying whispers and Castiel's bleeding body. "His cannon hasn't even fired yet!" Asher protests. "Aren't we supposed to be the best, Hela? _Isn't that what you had planned?_"

"It will," she replies coldly, her pace brisk as she heads for the trees. The cannon sounds on her heels, masking Asher's curses. _He'll fall in line behind me_, Hela decides.

After all, you are either _with_ Hela Mistlyre, or you are _against _her.

_All in due time_, she thinks ruefully, allowing the gloomy forest to swallow her up. _All in due time, those against her are going to die._

* * *

**Moses Finch **(**18**), **District 2 Tribute**

**8:44 AM**

The raw despair that fills his chest is unshakeable, even in the long seconds later when it feels like a tepid pond of sorrow has come to a rest in his lungs, only to shake and slosh at the mere thought of Alton's breath leaving his body. The wound is clearly fatal, blood pumping thick and _red_ between Alton's fingers. Moses laces his fingers in between his partner's, ignoring the warm stickiness of his blood, and cries freely, the tears dripping down his face at how quickly the world has wrenched everything good away from him.

"A-Alton, I love you, okay?" Moses asks, his other hand cupping his boyfriend's face gently, Alton's eyes pained and teary. He is biting back another scream, instead coughing, sending a fresh cascade of crimson down the front of his chest. _There's no going back._

_You can't save him, Moses_.

_You have to let him go, just like Gideon_.

Memories of his first fling fill his head briefly, followed by phantom pains across his body, knuckle-shaped bruises forming deep on his skin. _Everything you are is wrong. Disgusting. Shameful._

_Worth loving. Beautiful. Strong. Empathetic_. Moses remembers Alton's strong arms wrapped around his torso, his lips drizzled in a honey sweetness, their first kiss shared on the training floor with tension in the pits of their stomachs. When Alton takes a leap of faith and kisses him, quick and electric, the second stronger and richer with the entrance of Moses daring tongue into Alton's mouth, the two locked in a finite cycle of reassuring pleasure, a beautiful sixty seconds that makes Moses' heart swell at the seams, ready to burst.

_"You remember when you asked me to pick a weapon? To pick my poison?" _Alton had asked him. _"What if I told you the poison I want to pick… was you?"_

The throbbing wound in his arm nor the armed and lethal enemies that surround the duo are going to be enough to stop Moses as he grabs a fistful of Alton's blood-soaked shirt and kisses him fiercely, ignoring the metallic taste of salt on his tongue. His mouth is feverish and warm, with Alton shifting gentle focus onto Moses' bottom lip before breaking away to gaze into his eyes. Alton's warm brown eyes are filled with a sparkling galaxy of tears, searching for some kind of reassurance from Moses' own.

"I love you too, Moses," Alton says softly, his voice catching in his throat. "More than you know. These last few days with you…" he trails off into a whisper, as if he might not have enough strength to finish. "They've been some of the greatest of my life."

There is too much left unspoken, but Moses nods, feeling his shoulders shake with silent sobs. "Moses, you've made me realize that I should have _never_ spent so much time being ashamed of who I am," he says hoarsely, making Moses bite the inside of his lip to stop from crying uncontrollably. "When you get back home, promise me you'll finally feel the same way," he whispers, squeezing Moses' hand. The tears fall freely now as Moses leans in and kisses Alton one last time, breathing a silent '_I will_' against his cheek.

Moses can feel Alton's lips becoming slack as the life leaves his body; just before the cannon sounds and its thunderous noise shatters Moses' heart into a thousand tiny smithereens, scattering like a handful of pebbles thrown off the side of a cliff. _He's gone_, Moses thinks solemnly, brushing tears from his eyes with the back of his thumb, trying to memorize each line of Alton's rugged features. _You couldn't save him._

_Let him go this time_.

Tears blur his eyes, Moses' vision looking as if he has been plunged underwater, an icy shock running down the length of his spine. _He's dead and there's nothing you can do anymore_. The pain settles like a cinderblock into the bottom of his heart, the fleeting golden days snatched away from him. The world around him feels desolate and bleak, blurry movements barely registering with him. Words are lost in translation, a thick layer of silence taking their place instead. Moses braces himself for the impact of a spear or a knife, flattening his shoulders. The movement causes the tears to fall from his eyes, hot and unbidden, onto Alton's chest, and suddenly all Moses can think about is getting _away_ from the pain that has begun to consume him.

_He was your shot at love. _The only love that has ensnared Moses in such a way that every partner since Gideon has been unable to; not the Israel twins, despite their proximity, nor Siren and her ebony tresses. _When the love is gone… what does that make me?_ he wonders, bowing his head. _Nothing_.

The blade does not come; instead, Moses hears the wet sound of footsteps against marshy ground. They are slow and uneven, making Moses stand up, his hand wrapping around the hilt of his battle-axe. _Though I doubt I could have the strength to swing it anymore_, he thinks miserably, ears ringing with the cannon blast.

Instead, he is greeted by Castiel, limping over with a scowl on his face. "It's just you and me now, soldier," he says with a grimace, eyes alight with a spark of their old mirth as the joke falls flat between the two of them. "Things can only look up from here." Castiel looks over his shoulder, his yellow ochre windbreaker caked in blood. Castiel pats Moses on the back, the latter bristling at the seemingly patronizing gesture.

"Look," Castiel grunts as the harsh whirring of a hovercraft appears in the sky above them, blocking out whatever sunlight had started to filter between the trees. "The best thing you can do is fight for his memory," he advises as the two trudge away from Alton's battered corpse, covered in streaks of mud and blood, his eyes glassy and upturned toward the sky because Moses didn't have the heart to force Alton to see darkness as he slipped away into the void.

The two silently return to the Cornucopia, ducking inside the eerily quiet horn, and Moses starts rummaging through whatever supplies have been left behind as Castiel leans against the metal surface, looking unsteady on his feet. "Why don't you sit down, Castiel?" Moses says, unable to keep an edge of contempt from showing.

Castiel obeys his instructions, tilting his chin toward the ceiling, where a thin scratch from a sword forms the only marking in an otherwise flawless structure. "You know," he begins sullenly, "we're in the same exact boat, you and I." Moses pauses. a small medical kit clicked half-open in his palms as he listens to Castiel. "I lost my boyfriend two years ago," he admits, the secret finally coming to light. "He volunteered early and died just as brutally. I was crushed," Castiel explains, swallowing thickly as if it takes a great deal of effort to share. Moses crouches, having found a needle, and dabs a small amount of antiseptic ointment on his finger, smearing it across Castiel's thigh where he's rolled up his pant leg. The other boy seizes up, clenching his teeth, but says nothing, instead watching Moses wrap a bandage around his calf.

"It doesn't get easier," Castiel admits, and Moses looks up at their former leader, surprised to see how equally vulnerable and detached he looks. "If you truly loved Alton the way I think you did, it's never going to fully go away," Castiel admits as Moses applies a topical layer to his shoulder, his own injury from the Wolfchild's claws already starting to scab in some places.

"I barely knew him," Moses remarks offhandedly, his chest feeling empty and hollow. _As if I'll never love so fully again_. "Seven days isn't nearly enough to truly know anyone," he explains regretfully. "But maybe that's the most it was ever meant to be." _Start as strangers and end with no physical reminder but the fresh scarring on my heart._

Yet somehow, through the pain and madness, Moses has found some kind of magic in this nightmare. _Even if it only lasted for a moment_.

"I know you're stronger than this, Moses," Castiel tells him. _The first positive thing he's said to me since we launched_, Moses thinks bitterly. It's hard not to blame each and every failure of the functional Career Pack on its leader, the manipulative man he is. "Fight with everything you have left; fight for Alton, for whoever is waiting for you back home. No one else deserves the Victor's crown more than you or I do," he mumbles pensively. "It has to be one of us."

_Death has done us part_, Moses thinks sourly, watching from inside the Cornucopia as the hovercraft spirits Alton's body away from them, leaving nothing but a dirty ache of longing in his chest.

But for once, Castiel is right.

Moses may have taken a momentary respite from the Hunger Games, but fate willing, he will come back harder and stronger.

_For Alton… but more importantly, for _me_. Just this once_.

* * *

**EULOGIES: **

* * *

**15th: Alton Kersey (18), District 4 Male (**_**Submitted by 20**_**). Killed by Hela Mistlyre via a spear thrust through the ribcage/sternum. Alton is the first Career to die, though I initially had it being Siren before I re-navigated her arc. Alton was a really solid tribute, and I felt like he added a lot to the dynamic and flavor to the Pack because he had a softer side he showed with Siren and Moses, and also became defensive quick to stand up for himself against other, more antagonistic Careers. I think Alton had a lot of growth potential, and obviously I've been blessed with a fantastic Career Pack, but he did fall onto the less compelling side of my Career spectrum, so here he rests. I enjoyed getting to explore his romance with Moses and the fallout against every single other Career. Alton will be greatly missed - RIP.**

* * *

**ALLIANCES: **

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_**Hallelujah, It's… Men?**_**: Castiel (D1M, 1), Moses (D2M, 0)**

_**Parley in Pas de Deux**_**: Crescentia (D1F, 1), Siren (D4F, 1)**

_**Fight For Your Right (To Riot)**_**: Hela (D2F, 1), Asher (D11M, 1)**

_**Angsty Teen Romance II**_**: Sorrel (D5M, 1), Nyx (D5F, 0)**

_**Shooketh**_**: Tangaria (D11F, 0), Mariela (D12F, 0)**

_**Flying Solo**_**: Axel (D6M, 1)**

_**From Ember to Flame**_**: Halley (D8F, 1)**

_**Ya Blew It, Bud!**_**: Padds (D9M, 0)**

_**The "Apex Predator"**_**: Ruben (D10M, 1)**

* * *

**Author's Note****: Aaand there it is! We've officially fractured the Career Pack, and rather early enough as it is. Pretty short chapter because all of the POVs were centered around one event and I didn't want it to drag on pointlessly. I have begun the inclusion of a kill count embedded into the alliance list, and on one **_**more **_**note before I get to the CQ's, all sponsor items WILL be increased by five points once the next chapter is posted. If you want to take advantage of something low-cost, I suggest you do it now.**

**Chapter Questions:**

**1 - Are you surprised that Crescentia and Siren made it out unscathed? Did you expect Siren to stick with Moses and Alton instead?**

**2 - What are your thoughts on the position of the three Career alliances now? Do you think Castiel and Moses earned the Cornucopia or did Hela and Asher give it to them in a way?**

**3 - Did you expect a Career to die in the split? Did you think the first Career death was who it actually was or did you expect someone else?**

**Bonus - Go vote on the final 8 poll on my profile! :)**

**That's all from me for now, as usual. I hope this finds everyone well and if it didn't, I hope it took your mind off things even if only briefly! Much love and I hope everyone has a great day/night! :)**


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